Take From Me My Lace
by littleblackdog
Summary: AU – Modern, Human, F!Bilbo. Bilba Baggins, model for a premier lingerie company, isn't always entirely convinced that the perks of the job are worth the hassle. Can't she even go to the shops without being recognized? But Thorin doesn't seem to recognize her at all, even with her nearly-naked body forever plastered across half of London. That's... a very refreshing change.
1. Chapter 1

**Human!AU, Model/Fashion!AU, Female!Bilbo, Bilbo/Thorin, Bofur/Nori**

_AN: This AU was inspired by __**ewelock**__, who prompted the idea and has done some gorgeous art of Bilba in her lingerie (as well as so much lovely Hobbit art in general). You should definitely go check out her tumblr and have a look!_

* * *

Bilba held still, but not frozen stiff, as the camera clicked away. The shoot that morning had been a bit more dynamic, the green screen behind her eventually going to be magicked into some verdant meadow (precisely the sort of scene one _wouldn't_ find in London in January). The huge whirring fan tousling her hair— a stand-in for the _fresh spring breeze_— had driven the usually unruffled Bombur utterly 'round the bend.

The fan had some advantages, however, especially under the glare of studio lights. Lying prone across a rather lovely toile upholstered settee, Bilba thought back fondly on those refreshing currents of air; she hadn't sweated at all that morning. It was a very different story at the moment, even trussed up in little more than a few delicate scraps of lace and silk.

"My face is melting," she announced to the room at large, still staring coyly to the right as Ori had instructed. "Melting right off. Puddle-face Baggins, they'll call me."

Nearby, she heard Bofur cursing quietly, and Ori paused in his glacially slow shuffle toward her, settling into a squat and lowering his camera with a pensive frown.

"You've gone a bit—" He motioned with one hand, spindly fingers fluttering at his own forehead, then glanced over to Bofur with an apologetic shrug. "Shiny. Maybe. Maybe?"

Relaxing, Bilba shifted into a more comfortable, natural pose on the settee, and waited for Bofur to tromp over with his case. She didn't have to wait long at all.

"I've no idea _how_, but you're doing this on purpose. Up." Sitting up, Bilba made room for Bofur to roll out his brushes across the cushions and kneel between her knees. His usual jovial grin was missing, replaced with a tired, but still vaguely amused half-smile. It had been a long day.

Taking her chin gently between his thumb and index finger, Bofur tilted her face under the lights, then back. "Buggering new powder isn't worth a pinch of piss, for all it's twice the price. I've half a mind to write a strongly worded letter."

"At least you got off easy this morning." Smiling, she squeezed her stocking-clad legs together, pressing against his ribs for a moment. "Why can't there be a lovely spring breeze in a French parlor, too? Surely there are windows I could theoretically open."

Bofur's expression lightened a smidgen more, and he plucked up a fat brush and a pot of loose, pale powder. "Bombur'll flip a table if he hears you say that, love. Turn this way so I don't get any of this on your lashes."

Turning as she was bid, Bilba closed her eyes as the powder was dusted lightly over her brow, swept the bridge of her nose, over her chin, and down to her cleavage. Bofur's hand, broad and slightly rough with calluses, had migrated down to curl against her neck; it was a much more welcome sort of warmth than the studio lights. This close, he always smelled of Imperial Leather soap, tobacco, and spun sugar— today, there was the added tang of lemon, and a richer sweetness she recognised.

"Tell me you have sherbet lemons and I'll adore you forever," she said, eyes still closed, and felt Bofur's lemony chuckle ghosting warm across her face.

"You'll adore me forever anyway." Very gently, doubtlessly leaving her makeup completely unmarred, Bofur tweaked the tip of her nose. "You may have sweeties later on, but only if you're very, very good for the rest of the afternoon, and _stop bloody sweating_."

Finally opening her eyes again, Bilba demurely fluttered her ridiculously long false lashes and tossed in a pout for good measure. The rosy gloss he'd chosen was perfect for pouting.

"Stop that, you tart," Bofur said, chuckling again, and gathered up his kit with practiced ease. "I'm immune to your wily ways."

"Not nearly," she shot back, though she did abandon the admittedly silly ingénue routine. It worked for the cameras, apparently, but reality was a different kettle of fish. The notion of flouncing and fluttering her way through life was laughable.

Taking her chin again, barely touching, Bofur gave her another critical study under the lights' glare, humming thoughtfully. "Lovely," he said at last, dimples furrowing deep as his grin spread. "As always, my darlin'. Now, let's get this show on the road."

In truth, neither of them was entirely immune to the charms of the other, but the flirting had never gone beyond playful banter. There was a mutual understanding, born partially of Bilba's hesitance to complicate a relationship with someone woven tightly around her happiness in so many other ways (Bofur was by far the best makeup artist she had ever worked with, the only one she wanted to work with if given a choice in the matter, and a dear friend besides).

And, more importantly than all that nonsense, there was the matter of Bofur being quite cheerfully spoken for already— he and Nori had been together on and off for the better part of a decade, but the past three years living together had settled the pair of them into one of the most adorably _comfortable_ couples Bilba had ever seen. She would never dream of begrudging Bofur a moment of that, and any torch she carried for him was more of a homey hearth fire, with coals banked low and steady.

Speaking of Nori, who was also a charming bloke in Bilba's estimation, their esteemed technician was currently balanced up on a ladder to tweak one of the large side lamps, fiddling with the damnable lights even as Bofur packed up.

"How's that," he called down to his brother, and Ori clicked a few test photos while Bofur retreated out of shot.

Ori was biting his lip, shifting between peering at Bilba through the camera and with his naked eyes, while Bilba moved back into position partly on her stomach, showing off the ruffly bottom of her knickers. The hair piece Bombur had woven in to fill out her curls to subtly opulent volume had begun to itch a bit, but the lacy white babydoll was more comfortable to lounge about in than the bustier from that morning.

"Better," Ori said, and Bilba focused on cool, refreshing thoughts. "Just a few more, and then we'll wrap."

* * *

Letting the smooth, milky fabric slide over her hands, Bilba adjusted the babydoll absently on its cushioned hanger, and offered Bifur a wide, toothy smile when he came trotting over.

"These new pieces are gorgeous," she said. "Very elegant." Bifur acknowledged the compliment with a pleased glance and sound that was partway between and grunt and a sigh, then vanished as suddenly as he'd arrived, zipping off so quickly that the thick, piebald braid of his hair whipped off his shoulders.

Bilba wasn't insulted in the least— she hadn't known Bifur before the car accident that had put that jagged white scar across his scalp, gruesomely parting his salt and pepper hair, but she had worked with him for a number of years since. Bofur claimed his cousin had always been a bit eccentric, as creative types sometimes were, and was simply a bit quieter now. There had been complications early on, Bilba had been told: aphasia had taken intensive therapy to overcome, and the man still suffered from a stutter that made him disinclined to verbosity, a few barely noticeable physical tics, and occasional migraines. But considering everything, both Bofur and Bombur insisted that Bifur's recovery had been remarkable.

Despite having no frame of reference, Bilba was inclined to agree based solely on her opinion of Bifur: he was an amazing designer, with a flair for stunning, flattering, and impossibly comfortable lingerie, and he had his own peculiar sort of politeness that never bothered her overmuch. She had nothing but glowing praise for him, even if he did occasionally dart off in the middle of conversations.

Doing up the rest of the buttons of her cardigan, more than a little pleased to be wrapped up in mossy green wool and her jeans again after the whole day in various skimpy skivvies, Bilba left the rack of teddies, bustiers, and wispy slips with one final stroke of her fingers across the supple fabrics. One of her jumper pockets was stuffed with sherbet lemons, and she plucked one out as she moved off to gather up her coat and her bag, tossing the crinkly wrapper in a bin on her way by and popping the sweet in her mouth. A few curls of hair had managed to escape her hasty bun already, and she tucked the wayward tendrils behind her ears.

It had been drizzling when she'd come in to the studio that morning, chilly and damp, but anyone who had been outside in the past few hours claimed the weather had cleared up. It was undoubtedly still rather brisk outside, however, and Bilba anticipated being glad for her gloves and her scarf on the walk to the tube. Twiddling a wave at Bofur and Nori as she bundled herself up, Bilba shrugged into her brown peacoat, then wound her long, saffron coloured scarf 'round her neck, turning her collar up a bit to press the fleecy knit closer.

"Have a good weekend, darlin'," Bofur called, giving her a jaunty wave in return, while Nori nodded and smiled. Ori was already off to pour over the photos, Bombur was elbow deep brushing out wigs, and Bilba was keen to get going so she could get to the shops and pick up something for supper. Slinging her satchel strap across her chest, Bilba was nearly out the door when a firm hand around her elbow brought her up short, almost making her squawk with the shock of it.

She took a deep breath, turning just in time to catch hold of the box Bifur was pressing into her arms. It was glossy silver cardboard, with the letters "GG" embossed on the lid in fluid, twisting script. It stood for "Garnished & Gilded" but Bilba had rarely heard it called anything but "Gigi's" by the public and even the media, and simply "Gandalf's" by those involved in the company.

Bilba took the box, which was about the size of an A4 sheet of paper and as thick as four fingers, then raised her brows at Bifur. "What's this, then?"

Beginning to open it before she even asked, Bilba found familiar silk and lace neatly folded inside— the white babydoll, with its gossamer fine flyaway and intricate black embroidery around the edges of the soft, unpadded cups. Even the panties were there, high-cut briefs with the lush rows of frilly lace across the bottom that she not-so-secretly thought was utterly delightful. And this particular set, just like every bit of lingerie she wore to photo shoots and publicity events, had been painstakingly tailored by Bifur to fit her every curve.

One of the very best perks of this job was the bespoke knickers, to be perfectly honest, and even the regular GG line was absolutely top quality. The nicest undies from Victoria's Secret couldn't hope to compare.

"F-f-for you to keep," Bifur said, his voice forever gravelly, but now very warm as well. He turned his head slightly, jaw flexing in a way she knew would help stave off the worst of the stuttering for a sentence or two, then looked to her again. "And don't argue like you do. You know we c-can— can't sell altered pieces. You wearing it is a b-better fate than being shut up in a cupboard. I make 'em to be worn."

"Bifur, I—" Closing the lid again, willing to bet that the man had tucked the ultra sheer stockings inside as well, Bilba swallowed back all the perfectly legitimate arguments she knew Bifur wouldn't even pretend to acknowledge. "Just... thank you. This is too much, you know."

Scoffing, Bifur shook his head and gave her elbow a friendly squeeze.

It wasn't until she was out of Studio Ri and standing on the pavement (it had, indeed, stopped raining, but the air had a bitter edge), that Bilba realized Bifur's kindness had condemned her to spending the tube ride home carrying a very recognizable lingerie box just _slightly_ too large to fit inside her satchel. There would probably be at least a few posters of the holiday campaign still lingering about, with her baps on full display in tasteful red satin, or pushed up to her throat in that spangled gold corset and garter set. Toting about this bloody box would simply make it easier for potential gawkers to put two and two together.

"_Bugger_," she snarled quietly, pulling on her gloves with more force than strictly necessary. "Taxi!"

* * *

There was still the shopping to do— it had been a terribly busy week trying to get the first leg of the spring campaign ready for publication, and her cupboards were shamefully bare. Unwilling to spend another evening munching on pickles and tinned soup, Bilba tamped down her reservations and had the cabbie drop her off at the Tesco just down the street from her flat.

The very first thing she did when she got inside was to grab a trolley, even if she would've only needed a basket, and put both the box and her satchel inside it. And if she grabbed a completely unnecessary bag of crisps on the way by, tossing them in to obscure the box as much as possible, that was her business.

She made it almost completely through her list— just a few basic essentials, some fresh fruit and greens, and chicken for tomorrow— before she noticed the first sign that she'd been recognized. Just some teenage girls loitering around the yoghurt, but Bilba saw one of them freeze in a double take, elbowing another of her friends before the lot of them started whispering. Snatching up a tub of vanilla with probiotics, Bilba wheeled out of the aisle as quickly as possible without breaking into a run.

Getting the hell out of the store was worse; even when she tried to go through the self-checkout, there was still the one magazine turned backwards in its display, with her tousled head and arched back plastered across it in full-colour.

Oh for god's sake.

"Excuse me, miss? It's just— I mean, are you—" The uncertain, masculine voice behind her made Bilba turn her head before she thought better of it. There stood a young man in his Tesco uniform, looking nearly as red in the cheeks as his crimson shirt. "Oh my god, it's _you_!"

_Oh for __**god's sake**_.

* * *

_AN: As a special note about Bifur: I actually struggle with a stutter, though mine is not caused by head trauma. It feels really odd, but good, to explore a character working through a similar speech disorder._


	2. Chapter 2

Bilba knew, theoretically, that there were people who honestly enjoyed going to the gym. She had met people who had claimed to love it— the exercise, the sense of accomplishment, the socialization— and most of the people she saw slogging away on the machines every week seemed content enough. Some of them even smiled while they did their circuits, chattering about how many kilometres they'd done that day, or how many reps, or what have you.

She had seen these _nutters_ with her own eyes, and she honestly had no idea what to make of them. She settled, more often than not, for nodding encouragingly whenever their passions for public fitness regimes came up.

It did come up, no matter how much she tried to avoid it; there was only so often a woman could go to the same gym before she became a _regular_. Only so many times she could workout over the course of a week before people started making assumptions that she _liked_ being there, for whatever insane reason.

Bilba did not like going to the gym. It was, in her estimation, equivalent in pleasure to a visit to the dentist— not _fun_ by any definition, but generally kept to a low simmer of necessary evil.

And yet, to the gym she went, four days a week like clockwork.

Saturday was usually Pilates and a short circuit around the machines for cardio and strength training. This particular Saturday, Bilba had resigned herself to spending a bit longer on the elliptical and doing a few more sets of crunches for good measure— she had been flustered enough at Tesco to actually buy the crisps, despite not really wanting them. Then, as these things sometimes went, she ended up finishing the whole bag while catching up on the episodes of QI she'd recorded before Christmas, and hadn't had a chance to watch yet.

The Tesco lad, Alfie, had been newly hired and probably no more than seventeen. He'd also fallen all over himself, blushing and stammering and offering to pack up her groceries for her until the manager had swept in to shoo him off. All things considered, it was _far_ from the most uncomfortable scenario she'd ever found herself in when being recognized, but Bilba had still felt her own face growing warm, especially since she hadn't been able to leave the store before the evening crowd had noticed something awry and the nosy gawkers had closed in.

She wasn't _ashamed_ of her job— most days, she liked it well enough. Somedays, she even loved it. It paid the bills with enough left over for some lovely creature comforts, it allowed her to work with wonderful people, and it fed her dreadful addiction to fancy knickers. There was no doubt in her mind that she was incredibly lucky to have fallen into it as she did, evolving somehow from a part-time lark of a job for a family friend to help pay her way through university, to a internationally recognized and rather glamorous career.

All that aside, however, it would have been rather refreshing to pop out to the shops without being recognized, especially recognized for more than her face. It could get rather awkward, a titch embarrassing, and on especially inappropriate occasions, reactions did sometimes cross the line into obscene. On those (blessedly) rare days, Bilba found herself seriously considering other lines of work, but the good still vastly outweighed the bad, and so she stayed.

It wasn't as though a change of career was guaranteed to escape the occasionally rude bastard making lewd comments about her body, or even trying to take liberties uninvited and unwanted. Bilba wasn't certain there was a woman alive lucky enough to avoid that entirely, from librarians to police officers, politicians to shop clerks, or anything between and beyond.

Most librarians and shop clerks didn't have to stand at the tube station beside an eight-foot poster of their own bottom in skimpy lace knickers, however.

It was currently mid-morning, a relatively quiet period wedged neatly between the early morning rush and the afternoon crowd at the gym, and Bilba was pushing herself through fifteen extra minutes on the elliptical, nearly ready for her cool down. A few pieces of her hair had come loose from her bun, sticking wetly to her neck, while her dark red t-shirt was plastered against the small of her back and her chest.

Gandalf's long-standing sentiment for his advertisements was _natural is beautiful. _Ori, or any other photographer she had ever worked with on a GG shoot, was always instructed to treat any and all photoshopping with the lightest possible touch. There wasn't any magical thinning of her limbs, nor any inches shaved from her waist or her face; the woman posing in garter and bustier on the eleventh page of _Glamour_ looked almost exactly like the woman who peered out at Bilba from her bathroom mirror (not counting the makeup and hair, softened lighting, and Ori's excellent eye for composition). The most significant changes were always the removal of her smattering of ruddy freckles and the faint stretchmarks she had on her hips, and Bilba didn't regret the loss of either.

She had learned, over the years, that Gandalf's proclamation about keeping her photos as true to life as possible extended farther than she had ever reasonably anticipated; it only took one shoot after a holiday in Greece and the subsequent glossy proofs of her wine-and-pasta potbelly in all its glory to convince her that committing to a stricter gym routine was the easiest course of action. She was curvier than some other models, and both she and Gandalf preferred it that way, but her own vanity did occasionally rear its head.

Gandalf's reaction to the potbelly photos had been to smile beatifically, with that damnably sincere twinkle in his bright blue eyes, and assure her that she was _perfectly lovely, my dear_. He'd actually seemed _pleased_.

At least she didn't have to worry overmuch about the inevitable creep of age; Gandalf had already informed her, without prompting, that she would have a place with Garnished & Gilded for as long as she wished, in whatever capacity. He simply tossed a lifetime of employment security in her lap with hardly a care in the world, and damn that batty old sod, she knew he meant every word.

Grabbing her towel, Bilba slowed her workout to a stop, hopping off the machine and slinging the plush terrycloth around the back of her neck. Catching her breath, she wiped down the machine absently, already thinking ahead to a refreshing shower and a pop down to her usual cafe for lunch.

Lost in thought, she didn't entirely realize she was staring at a _person_, rather than simply off into space, until a pointed throat-clearing shook her back to attention.

"Oh god," she said, eyes snapping up and away from the very toned, well-muscled arm that had been the focus of her unintentional gawking, as gleaming biceps and triceps flexed beneath the nearby pull-up bar. The man attached to that arm was levelling her with a cool, unblinking look that she couldn't read at all, holding himself up off the floor with what appeared to be minimal strain, and she was suddenly so very relieved that her workout had put a flush in her cheeks already.

The man wasn't someone she'd seen around the gym before— she would have remembered that face, handsome and distinct as it was, not to mention the long, well-turned-out lines of his body under that sleeveless top and dark mesh trousers. The combination of those steely eyes, with that sharp jut of a nose, and a swathe of dark stubble should have been illegal, or at least required a bloody permit.

_Permit to be outrageously gorgeous and fit while Bilba Baggins puts her foot in it. Issued to one Handsome Gym Stranger; never expires. _

"I didn't— I wasn't—" Slapping her hand over her mouth, Bilba considered whether tossing her towel over her head and fleeing toward the ladies' locker room was an appropriate course of action.

She _knew_, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the sort of expression she'd been wearing while staring at this man. Bofur called it _ravishingly ravenous_; it was, apparently, a particular look that stole across her face whenever she got on to thinking about good food. There were occasions when Ori, flushed pink, would ask her to focus on supper during a shoot, just to get the proper sensual expression he was aiming for.

She'd been thinking about a delicious turkey and avocado sandwich this time, with juicy fresh tomato. She'd been _so hungry_ for it.

"Oh _god_," she said again, sliding her hand up to her sweat-damp, burning cheek. The man kept hanging there, not speaking or granting her the mercy of looking away. The weight of his pale, slate blue gaze was incredibly intense, and Bilba wanted desperately to sink into the floor. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at all— I was just... I was thinking about lunch, and got distracted. Sorry, sorry again."

"It's fine," the man said, _finally_, his glance flickering away, releasing her like a snapped elastic band, and his arms tightening again as he lifted his chin above the bar without a hint of quivering. He made it look so easy, but then again, with those _shoulders_...

Thank goodness, she was free to scurry off as quick as her sore legs would carry her, and sod her stretching. She wasn't about to loiter around at this point, heading straight for the showers instead. With any luck at all, she might be able to scrub off this feeling of her skin being _on fire_ with the force of her flush, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet.

* * *

As squeaky clean as possible from gym showers— she did, and always would, vastly prefer the particulars of her own bathroom, thank you kindly, but she had no intention of stepping foot outside this gym without rinsing off a bucket or two of sweat first— Bilba changed back into her jeans and blouse. She left her cardigan unbuttoned against the lingering warmth suffusing her from the workout and the water, and replaced squeaky trainers with her favourite brown loafers, the leather polished to a sheen. Her hair was still a little damp, curling loose around her shoulders, but not too wet to brave the chill outside if she tucked it under her coat collar.

She hadn't really considered the possibility of running into Handsome Stranger on her hurried way out, which was a silly omission in hindsight. As her treacherous luck would have it, she very nearly ran into him in a literal sense, tripping over her own feet when she turned a corner by the main desk and there he was, filling up a glossy clear water bottle at one of the fountains.

His hair was spiking wet, whether with sweat or water she didn't know for certain, but the deep blue of his shirt had gone darker under his arms and around his neck. He wasn't quite as impossibly tall as he'd seemed hanging from that bar, but an inch or two shy of six feet still put him nearly a foot taller than her. He certainly held himself with a sizable sort of presence, all shoulders and quiet gravitas, and Bilba felt her stomach flutter foolishly when he glanced over at her fumbling.

"Hello again," she managed, fingers worrying along the strap of her satchel, then swallowed when the man said nothing. His eyebrows crept ever so slightly upward, but that was the extent of his acknowledgement.

After one awkward, silent moment, Bilba gathered herself, taking a deep breath and lifting her chin. She even found the wherewithal to smile, just a little upturn of her lips, but true; she was more embarrassed about _behaving_ so embarrassed, anyway.

"Right," she said, calming. "Well, I hope you have a lovely day."

And on that relatively high note, Bilba darted widely around him, making her way towards the large glass doors that led out into the chilly winter streets. She was determined not to turn back for one last peek, not willing to risk being caught out again, when a deep, slightly Northern accented voice called out from some distance behind her.

"Enjoy your lunch." After that, Bilba couldn't help but look back for just an instant; the man didn't look cheerful, precisely, but the corner of his fine lips was quirked up ever so slightly as he watched her go.

Watched her face, not her bottom, which was a very important distinction.

Offering wordless thanks with an unusually clumsy little wave, Bilba hugged her coat a bit tighter and slipped outside, very aware that he could still see her through the glass as she paced off down the pavement. If he cared to look.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: okay, so I've got to say: please, nobody get too excited about the speed of these updates, or grow too accustomed to it. I'm on a roll, but work/life will definitely throw a wrench in that too soon. It'll probably settle to about a chapter a week-ish. For now though, here is Chapter 3!_

_Also, you should go check out tumblr for some more gorgeous model!Bilba art, by __**ewelock**__ and now also by __**got-dem-kili-fili-feels**__. I wish I could give you links here, but if you have trouble tracking anything down, I reblog it all on my own tumblr also (__**pibroch**__), under the tag "lingerie model au"_

* * *

Claiming that she didn't spare another thought for Handsome Gym Stranger would have been a lie of immense proportions, but Bilba liked to imagine she had put him mostly out of her mind after a day or two. He was nowhere to be seen when she trotted back into the gym on Monday morning (and yes, she had kept half an eye out, ostensibly to avoid another unexpected run-in); by Wednesday, with not a single sign of him, she was waffling somewhere between relieved and disappointed.

A brief reshoot of some pastoral corset photos flew by without incident, then a day of fittings with Bifur and tea with Gandalf on Thursday afternoon. No chiseled Northerners made surprise appearances, popping out from around corners.

By Friday, she was fighting a resurgence of anxiety, buzzing under her skin like tiny bees. Tomorrow, if he wasn't at the gym, she would write the whole thing off as a fluke. One more day, and then she was finished with this silliness.

Friday was, of course, also the day that she was splashed by a cab walking home from from a jaunt to the bookshop.

She knew better than to walk so close to the kerb after three days of rain, but there was a group of excited tourists snapping group photos of themselves overtaking nearly the entire span of the pavement, and beyond politeness' sake, Bilba didn't fancy taking the risk of being recognized and coaxed into an impromptu photo-op. She'd discovered that keeping her hair pinned up often helped maintain a little more anonymity, but she'd decided on a whim to leave it loose around her shoulders that morning. Her curls gone a bit wild from the dampness in the air and the briskness of the wind, fluffing up in some places. She'd caught sight of it in the bookshop window, and it was unfortunately reminiscent of Bombur's preferred "bedhead" look for some shoots; the clerk at the shop already knew who she was, but she'd gotten a curious glance or two from other patrons as she browsed.

She'd stopped being especially keen on unexpected photos with the public the first time her cousin Lobelia had emailed her a link to a backhandedly barbed article about Gigi's in the Daily Mail, complete with a few unflattering shots of her posing with some people outside a pub, where she'd been having a bite of lunch with Gandalf. It had been the height of summer, with the midday sun glaring down to show every shadow of her face in deep relief, her nose still ruddy from allergies after a photo shoot the day before with a Persian cat, and to top it all off, she'd had spinach in her teeth.

The fact that it had been Lobelia crowing about it (she'd cc'ed the email to half the family, of bloody course), had made the whole mess a thousand times worse.

Slipping around the tourists' boisterous chattering and laughter, Bilba was in perfect position to take the full brunt of the icy, filthy spray as the cab pulled up to drop off its fare— somehow, the tourists managed to avoid more than a few muddy flecks on their artfully distressed anoraks, and were striding off in a giggling, jostling pack an instant later, oblivious to Bilba's situation.

Her coat suffered under the deluge, gritty water beading unattractively on the warm brown wool, and she had unfortunately decided on a pleated tweed skirt and sage green tights to ward off the cold that morning. The tights fared worse than the coat, and offered less protection than her jeans might have done, soaking through in an instant. The feel of frigid water splashing up under her skirt was decidedly _awful_.

The only speck of luck in this whole mess was the fact that her new books were likely safe and dry inside her satchel (though the satchel itself was speckled with water, the leather had been weatherproofed).

"Bugger!" Stomping her feet ineffectually, as though she could kick the shockingly cold water off, Bilba looked down at the state of herself with hopeless frustration. This wasn't simply winter slush water, it was London kerb water, and she immediately felt the need for a long, piping hot bubble bath. _After_ she'd had an equally hot shower. "Buggering, blasted, _bugger_! Shit!"

The back door of the cab flew open, and Bilba only had one flabbergasted moment to register Handsome Gym Stranger unfolding himself onto the pavement before he was wrenching the front door open as well, exposing the driver to Bilba's wide-eyed, sodden stare.

"Apologize to her," Handsome Gym Stranger snapped, in tone of such firm, fierce command that the cabbie didn't even hesitate before babbling out how deeply sorry he was, withering under the other man's glare.

Holding up a placating hand, ignoring the squishy feeling in her loafers, Bilba shook her head. "No, it's fine; it's all right. It was an accident. It's fine."

Handsome Gym Stranger scoffed harshly, pulling a few notes from his wallet and tossed them at the cabbie, before closing both car doors with just _slightly_ more force than necessary. Then he turned, stepping back from the kerb as the cab pulled ever so cautiously away, and regarded Bilba with a lingering frown.

"It was an accident that could have been avoided if that idiot had been paying attention," the man said, stripping off his dark grey overcoat with apparently no care at all about the weather. The navy blue button down shirt beneath fit perfectly across his wide chest, and Bilba couldn't help but remember the curves of muscle hidden beneath his sleeves. "Here."

He held out his coat, stretched open for her to step inside it easily, and Bilba turned around to accept the offer before she could even begin to think better of it. Her own coat was wet and filthy, true enough, but the wool would have kept her warm enough for the walk even sopping. Still, the Handsome Gym Stranger's coat draped down past her skirt hem and below her knees, which was something her chilly thighs certainly appreciated. When he settled the heavy fabric over her shoulders, Bilba may have shivered a _tiny_ bit— this was exactly the sort of ridiculous situation that was much more at home in a cheesy rom-com than in real life, and she was _not_ Jennifer Aniston.

"I want to buy you a hot coffee," the Handsome Stranger said from behind her, his hands resting for just a moment longer on her upper arms, before he retreated and she spun around again, swimming in ample folds of charcoal fabric. His coat smelled of pine, bergamot, and man, with the faintest musk of what she thought might be woodsmoke; she did _not_ bury her nose in it, even if it was the very definition of cosy and inviting. "Unless you'd rather go, get cleaned up and all. Do you need a cab?"

What she needed, in nearly equal measure, was to have coffee with Handsome Gym Stranger, but also to get _eau de London_ washed off. Her legs felt gritty, even under her tights, and that was just disgusting.

"I need to get cleaned up," she admitted after a brief internal struggle, just barely resisting the urge to curse again, and motioned further along the street. "But my flat is just down here, not far at all. No need for another cab, even if this one is a bit less sloppy. Thank you very much, though."

Glancing down the direction she pointed, the man let loose a quiet hum from some place deep in his chest, running one hand over his clean-shaven jaw. Bilba wasn't certain which level of grooming she preferred... the stubble before had been very nice to look at, but Bofur would never let her hear the end of it if she waltzed in with a case of beard-burn for him to cover up.

Oh god, she hadn't just thought about beard-burn. Oh _god._

"Would it..." The man began to say, then paused, unaware that he'd just shaken Bilba free of her spiral into private humiliation. "If you'd rather I didn't, I'd understand of course, but I would like to walk you home. If I may."

The fact that Handsome Gym Stranger didn't _look_ like a psychotic murderer was a point in his favour, but Bilba didn't often let random strangers know where she lived, either— she had learned that lesson early on, after a few creepy "fans" began hanging around her doorstep and digging through her bins, but that was three flats ago. When push came to shove, however, she found that she couldn't quite forget that wisely ingrained habit of caution so easily, even for _painfully_ Handsome Gym Stranger.

"I appreciate the offer, but I'll be all right." She smiled, hoping to soften any unintended insult, but the man looked gently resigned rather than upset. "Honestly, thank you very much. If I wasn't currently a health hazard, I'd be more than happy to take you up on that coffee, and even give you a proper hug for being such a gentleman."

She was not imagining the way his gaze snapped to her face when she said that, nor did she think she was imagining the curious glint flashing in those hawk-sharp eyes. It may have been hope, perhaps even _interest_, but she wasn't certain enough (or tidy enough, at the moment) to be any bolder than she'd been already.

"Keep the coat," Handsome Gym Stranger said, before she had even begun to offer it back to him, and that thin half-smile she recalled from nearly a week before was inching its way back onto his face. "Until tomorrow, at least. Will I see you at the gym again?"

"If you're there tomorrow morning, yes." Fidgeting with the smooth lining of the coat, pleased that the size of it would hide the worst of her squirming, Bilba extended one hand out into the cool afternoon air, remembering at very nearly the last moment to tug her glove off. "I'm Bilba."

Handsome Gym Stranger wasn't wearing gloves to begin with (there was a pair folded inside one of his coat pockets, smokey grey leather lined with cashmere, but she wouldn't find them until she got back to the flat). His hand, when it closed around her own, was dry and surprisingly warm, despite the weather.

"Thorin," he replied; his grip was steady, and sat very comfortably between firm and polite. He wasn't treating her hand like a soap bubble ready to burst at a single touch, and neither was he channelling his unbridled machismo into crushing her bones.

_Thorin_. Somehow, it suited him, she thought.

"I'd like to consider that coffee invitation rescheduled rather than refused," she said with a small, twinkly grin of her own, giving his large hand a brief squeeze; she was, apparently, not _quite _finished being bold. "If that suits you as well."

"That suits." Their shared grip broke mutually, if a bit slower than an average handshake might have done, and Bilba curled her arm back inside the warmth of Thorin's coat, tugging it closed around herself.

Taking an aborted half-step closer, Thorin reached out towards where her elbow might be beneath the coat, stopping well shy of actually touching her. "You're shivering."

"Yes, well, I'm dashed cold." Oh, that was _lovely. _In an effort not to curse in front of the man— because bugger it all, she was so damned cold, wet, and uncomfortable, but she was trying to make a better impression than _creepy-staring-sweaty-woman_ or _covered-in-muck-woman-who-swears-like-a-dockworker _— Bilba had succeeded in sounding like her Gran.

Licking her lips, and just barely managing not to pull a face when she tasted a hint of dirt, she tried again. "I'm just... yes. Yes, I'll be off now, before I freeze solid. I'll bring this back—" Fluttering the coat a bit, and immediately regretting it as a draft billowed inside, Bilba shifted in her sloshy shoes. "Tomorrow. Unless, I mean, it's probably gotten filthy; did you want me to have it dry-cleaned, or—"

"Don't worry about that." Shaking his head, Thorin stepped aside and swept his arm out, as if holding open a door for her, or motioning for her to precede him. "Go on before you catch a chill."

"Right. I'm off." Taking a breath, Bilba started off towards home, turning a slightly backwards as she went. Thorin was watching her go, attention on her face again (though she would admit that any hint of her figure was drowning in his coat).

"Thank you again, Thorin," she called back, before she'd gone too far at all; Thorin dipped a low nod in her direction, while his eyes stayed fixed on her, looking as deep and greyish as the overcast sky.

Bilba bit her lip as she kept on squeaking and squishing down the pavement with every step, fingers twisting in borrowed wool.


	4. Chapter 4

Her mobile chirped the moment she slid her key in the door of her flat, with the unobtrusive little trill of her text alert muffled somewhere deep inside her satchel, but Bilba didn't bother fumbling for it until she'd gotten inside properly. Locking the door behind herself, she toed off her sodden shoes before taking a single step off her entrance rug; the feet of her tights, where the water had pooled in her shoes, were stained a dismal muddy grey. It was a darker shade of the same dirty splashes that crawled up her calves, disappearing under the hem of Thorin's coat.

_Thorin's coat_.

It was incredibly embarrassing, even alone in her own flat, but Bilba finally gave into the urge to press her face into the soft fur collar, sniffing deeply.

"Oh, that's very good," she mumbled, leaning back against the door for a long, completely undignified moment before forcing herself to _grow up, damn it_. She shrugged out of the coat, noting with relief that the lining hadn't suffered too horribly from being pressed up against the mess of her, and hung it carefully on the coatrack tacked up nearby, spreading it across three pegs to help it dry.

Her own coat was another matter, mottled like the world's ugliest camouflage and already starting to stink as only wet wool could. Unbuttoning it quickly, Bilba dropped it in a pitiful pile beside her shoes and satchel— it would have to be dry-cleaned, regardless, and she wasn't about to hang it next to Thorin's coat and risk spreading the mire. Her jumper had survived unscathed, and in an attempt to keep it that way, she pulled it over her head, tossing the fine oatmeal-coloured knit over to the safety of the sofa.

Standing in her flat, barely inside the door, Bilba considered the merits of rushing to the bathroom and diving immediately into the shower, clothes and all, but dismissed that notion rather quickly. Instead, she steeled herself for the unpleasant task of peeling herself free of wet, gritty tights, balancing against the door when she needed to, then unzipped her skirt as well, shimmying it off her hips and letting it drop.

Stripped down to her knickers and bra— an elegantly simple cream silk and black lace set she had originally worn for a shoot last autumn, now without the matching garter belt and stockings— Bilba ignored every civilized instinct that railed against leaving her filthy clothes just laying there, opting for an immediate shower to chase the chill from her bones. The floorboards felt warmer than her bare feet, and the water that soon chugged up into her bath was warmer still, steam rising quickly as she adjusted the taps.

She spent unhurried _ages_ the shower, first scrubbing herself pink but mostly just standing under the hot spray, and emerged forty-five minutes later, blessedly warm and bundled up in her cosiest dressing gown. It was plush yellow towelling, not nearly as fine as the patchwork masterpiece Bifur had put together on one of his whims (fashioned from luxurious scraps he'd found around his workshop, and gifted to Bilba for no other occasion than a Wednesday), but her yellow robe was better equipped to deal with damp, just-showered skin.

Puttering around the kitchen, putting the kettle on for a desperately needed cup of tea, Bilba found herself unable to ignore the state of her wet clothes any longer. Leaving the kettle to heat, she steeled herself and went to gather the mess of tights and skirt, holding them well away from her body as she stuffed the lot into an empty laundry bag (she was _not_ putting them in with her other dirty clothes). Her coat, she slung over a cheap plastic hanger and zipped up inside an old suit bag— she'd have to drop it off at the dry cleaners as soon as possible, but she didn't quite have the fortitude to make the trip at the moment.

That done, Bilba ducked back inside the bathroom to give her hands another wash, then it was back out to the kitchen just in time to click the kettle off and put the tea to steep.

Sitting at her kitchen table, hands wrapped around the heat of her earthenware mug, she breathed in the familiar scent of bergamot, and found her eyes straying toward the overcoat hanging just inside her flat. Who in the world gave a complete stranger their _coat_, for goodness sake? And an expensive coat, at that— heavy charcoal wool, with a sleek chocolate brown collar she recognized as real rabbit fur, she had expected to see a Burberry or Belstaff label when she took it off. Instead, she'd found a neat, white embroidered patch she didn't recognize, simply _Dale_, stitched with a Savile Row address beneath.

She had never heard of a tailoring shop called Dale, on Savile or otherwise; the coat was impeccably well-kept, but had a comfortable, worn-in feeling to the fabric that made her wonder how old it might be. Had Thorin bought it second-hand, inherited it, or had he actually just let her walk off with a bespoke coat he had worn and kept up for years? It certainly _fit_ him as though it had been made for him...

Her tea was just barely on the safe side of scalding, and she took a fortifying sip, feeling the heat suffuse her from the inside out.

_Oh my god, you're that Gigi's girl!_

_Wait, aren't you— cor, you got gorgeous tits! Lads, look at this!_

_Hey there, babe, how much to see it in real life, eh?_

Thorin hadn't done a single thing— not a double-take, a knowing look, or sly remark— to indicate he had any idea who she was. Bilba wasn't self-important enough to think she was as recognizable as most film stars, or the Royals, or anything so ridiculous as all that, but her face (and the rest of her) was still plastered around hither and yon, and sometimes quite liberally depending on the breadth of Gandalf's current campaign. If Thorin had ever used the tube around Christmas or Valentines, or walked by a lingerie store, he would have seen a poster. If he flipped through certain magazines in a waiting room, he would have seen an advert.

Perhaps, even if he had seen her, he hadn't made the connection; the twice he had met her in the flesh, she'd hardly been powdered and primped on silk sheets. But before Bilba could consider how unrealistic her sudden yearning to _keep_ him ignorant actually was (for even just a _bit_ longer, maybe), her mobile chirped again, reminding her of the text she hadn't checked earlier.

Her satchel, dry and unharmed from its dousing, was hanging next to Thorin's overcoat; if she touched the coat as she passed, skimming her fingers over shiny cuff buttons, there wasn't anyone around to see.

Pulling her new books and mobile out of the bag, Bilba dropped the books on the arm of her sofa on the way by, and settled back in with her tea before unlocking her phone. Tapping her code across the smooth glass screen, she found a pair of unread texts from Gandalf waiting; the most recent was simply a trio of question marks, which she knew was a sign she had ignored a message requiring an answer.

The other text, received when she'd been getting in her door, simply said _check your email_.

Clicking out of her messages and into her inbox, Bilba expected to find anything from a fascinating article on obscure Welsh poetry (she did, in fact, have dual honours in Literature and Classics from King's), to a video of cats playing piano. One could never tell with Gandalf.

What she didn't expect, to the point of choking on her tea when she read it, was an email from British Airways, confirming her ticket purchase and upcoming flight from Heathrow to JFK. Her flight, scheduled to leave London in _four hours_.

She was dialling Gandalf's mobile before she'd even stopped coughing, glaring daggers at the tabletop in lieu of turning her ire on one dotty old codger. The call rang three times before connecting, bringing the slightly tinny sound of Gandalf's voice into her ear.

"Ah, there you are." Gandalf seemed perfectly pleased, and blissfully unaware of the frustrated scrape of Bilba's fingernails over the side of her mug, making the tea judder. "Nearly packed, my dear? It is New York in January; you would do well to remember your scarf."

Breathing deep, Bilba managed to keep her voice from sounding too strangled when she asked: "Where are you?"

"At this moment," Gandalf said, over the faint hum of people in the background of the call. "I am enjoying an espresso and a truly delightful blueberry muffin at Caffè Nero in Terminal Five."

Pressing her forehead into her palm, Bilba hunched over in her seat, both elbows braced on the table; her stomach flipped sickly. "Gandalf, why... we're not going to New York until next month. The show isn't until _February_—"

"And we still are, dear girl. This is something else, recently come up." The sound of Gandalf sipping his espresso made Bilba think of coffee, of her might-possibly-be-a-date with Thorin, and she gritted her teeth against the frustrated shout threatening to escape. "This Lingerie Fashion Week next month," Gandalf continued. "Should be quite the success, I imagine, and Garnished & Gilded has been asked to become more involved in these final planning stages, in the hopes of eventually bringing a similar event to London. I do realize this is terribly short notice, but it is also a very important opportunity we should not squander."

"But why am _I_—" she began to say, hearing the desperate whinging creeping in, only to be cut off by Gandalf's gently admonishing sigh.

"You are the future of Garnished & Gilded, Bilba Baggins." She flinched, her indignation withering under the brunt of his quiet, earnest tone. "Not simply the face, but the heart and the mind, and one day, undertakings such as these will be yours entirely." He paused, chuckling softly and perhaps a touch bittersweet, and any further protests crumbled weakly in her breast. "I'll not be around forever, my dear."

Oh, that was a low blow, taking her out right at the knees.

"All right, Gandalf." Swallowing thickly, Bilba glanced up at Thorin's coat again, then back down at the table. The return date for the ticket was Wednesday; at least she wasn't going to be spirited off across the pond for weeks. "I'll... I'll be there in an hour."

Ending the call after Gandalf's goodbyes, Bilba cursed her own stupid lack of foresight— she hadn't gotten Thorin's mobile number, or even a _surname_. A furtive riffling through his coat pockets didn't turn up anything but a pair of gloves and a gold-toned zippo lighter, intricately engraved with angular designs on all sides. Nothing to indicate how she could contact him, or even how she might simply return his coat.

Hastily packing her small wheeled suitcase— and bringing only her basic business wardrobe; if Gandalf thought she was doing any modelling on this slapdash trip, that was _his_ responsibility to plan— Bilba dressed for the flight, then slipped on a spare pair of loafers and a rusty red overcoat, snatching up her scarf on her way out the door (having forgotten it that morning, it was blessedly dry). Sending a quick text to Bofur as she trotted downstairs and out onto the pavement, Bilba walked up the street and waited for his reply, pulling her suitcase behind her.

Bofur answered her vague request for a favour with an unconditional: _sure thing love what do you need? _She typed out the details as she went, explaining that Gandalf was dragging her to the States without warning, and that there was a wet wool coat in her flat that desperately needed to be dropped off at the dry-cleaners. Bofur agreed easily, of course, with a winking smiley, his good wishes for a safe trip, and _bring us back a bobblyhead lady liberty xx_.

Not bothering to mention that the lot of them would be heading back to New York in only a few weeks anyway, Bilba thanked him, added a smiley of her own along with assurances that he was the sweetest man to ever grace the earth, then slipped her mobile into her pocket.

By this time, she was back to the spot where the splash had occurred, noting that a wide puddle was still lurking menacingly against the kerb. Peering around at the few passing people, Bilba wasn't terribly surprised to find no sign of Thorin, but his cab had dropped him off here for a _reason._ If she intended to make it to Heathrow within the time she'd told Gandalf, she was cutting things a little close, but Bilba still took a few minutes to duck inside the shops along this stretch, asking after a dark haired man in a blue shirt, not wearing a coat.

After fifteen minutes and no luck at all, she was forced to abandon the attempt, muttering crossly to herself as she strode out and hailed a cab.

* * *

_AN_: **mine is an evil laugh**

Oh _Gandalf._

Folks, I swear things will eventually work out in fluffy happy sexy times. Eventually ;)


	5. Chapter 5

_**POSSIBLE TRIGGERS IN THIS CHAPTER**_

_Okay, so here how I'm going to play this: there is __**no**__ non-con, dub-con, extreme gore, extreme violence, incest, or death in this chapter, but there is some potentially difficult/unpleasant material._

_For those of you who want to read it without knowing specifically what's coming, please do go ahead, but for those of you who would prefer to be prepared ahead of time and make a decision about your own comfort/care, I've included a brief outline of the unpleasant content in the end notes. It's as vague with actual chapter spoilers as I could make it._

* * *

"Come on, come on, come on..." Tapping her toes inside her shoes, Bilba crossed her arms and watched the cool blue LED numbers above the lift oh so slowly count upwards to the seventeenth floor. The New York trip had been informative, exciting, but also an exhausting few days. As nice as it was to be back in London, she now had to consider the unintentionally purloined coat still waiting in her flat. All she wanted, _desperately_, was to go home and curl up in her own feathery duvet, get a few hours of sleep, and have some private time to fret about her current Thorin situation.

What she absolutely _did not_ want to do at the moment was talk about knickers, sales projections, or expanding markets. She did not want to spend another instant in the Istari offices; she hadn't even wanted come into the office in the first place, already cranky from the jet lag and feeling a bit gassy from the otherwise delicious mushroom pasta she'd eaten on the flight home. But Gandalf had dragged her along (after wheedling through her lukewarm protests), just as he'd dragged her to the States this time, and to Milan the month before, to that horrifying sushi bar he had sworn was cleaner than it seemed, and to a thousand other pain in the arse _adventures_ over the years.

No, she hadn't wanted to go into the office _at all_, having just stumbled off her second transatlantic flight in five days, bleary-eyed and fighting cramps, and perhaps a wee bit heartsick. It had already been half-seven in the evening when they caught a cab from Heathrow, and swaths of the Istari building's windows had been dark as their cab pulled up, but Gandalf had insisted, with that damnable _indulge me_ gleam in his eyes.

Of course Saruman was still there when they arrived— Bilba wasn't convinced their esteemed Managing Director didn't simply sleep with his eyes open, propped up at his own desk.

Istari Incorporated was a marvel of a business model, holding its own in an increasingly conglomerated economic stage. Still independent, without a parent company, they had somehow managed to stay afloat without expanding their operations beyond the design and manufacture of intimate apparel. Even _Victoria Secret_ had a few other varied sorts of brands as its diversifying sisters, while Istari and its subsidiaries stuck firmly to their well turn-out wheelhouse.

The cornerstone of the company was, of course, their basic _Blanche_ line of mass produced, affordable underwear— all y-fronts and cotton-blend knickers bundled up ten to a package and sold at Asda, Tesco, and every corner chemist. There was little creativity in the Istari workhorse— only rapid, large scale distribution for profit, and a proven product that performed well for its price. Saruman kept tightest, greediest control of this aspect of the business, though it seemed to Bilba that Gandalf and their third partner, Radagast Bruni, were both more than content to allow Saruman to have his dominion.

Radagast, a perpetually cheery (and somewhat erratic) fellow, oversaw _Wee Beasties_. Istari's second branch, it was entirely child focused and an absolute riot of colour and vibrant cartoon creatures printed across footie pyjamas and teensy rainbow undies, all made of organic cottons and renewable bamboo fibres. The brand was also wildly popular, which no doubt contributed to Saruman's continued tolerance for Radagast's wandering mind, as well as his rather _artistic_ interpretation of office attire (the last time Bilba had seen him, Radagast had been puttering down a corridor on the building's fourth floor, with what appeared to be an entire field's worth of wildflowers woven through the long, untamed waves of his hair).

And then there was Garnished & Gilded— Gandalf's baby, and always carefully tended with his personal touch— specializing in the finest, most luxurious pieces Istari offered. Their production runs were smaller than either Blanche or Wee Beasties, but they still supplied hundreds of small boutiques across Britain and Ireland, and even a few shops farther afield in the Commonwealth. Gigi's online presence was a chicly beautiful web shop (designed on contract by Ori, incidentally, with a great deal of technical support from Nori), and their abundant sales through that medium extended to a global audience.

That evening, after nearly eight hours in the air and a five hour time difference, Bilba was about as keen to see Mr Saruman Belov as he ever was to see her— that is, _not very_. But still she followed Gandalf into Saruman's spotless office, sat politely through an agonizingly detailed discussion of the trip, and offered her own largely unfettered opinions whenever Gandalf prompted (as he expected). And as _she_ expected, Saruman merely favoured her with a cool, dismissive stare, though he made no attempts to interrupt when she spoke.

It had become a typical formula: Gandalf would once again draw her ever deeper into the business side of things, and Saruman would keep quiet, but not cordial about the whole thing, peering at Bilba with those impossibly dark eyes. His stance on her— _just a model—_ having anything to do with business discussions, compared to Gandalf's unsubtle notion of grooming his successor, was an argument Bilba avoided becoming tangled up in at all costs. There were many things in her life she could control, and some she could not; the wills and whims of Misters Belov, Bruni, and Legris fit firmly into the latter category.

When she was finally dismissed from Saruman's office, it was coming on eleven o'clock, and she could hardly muster the energy not to drag her feet as she dragged her suitcase over to the lift. Gandalf was staying behind to catch up on paperwork, he'd explained, and she had gently refused his offer to see her to a cab— she wasn't _quite_ exhausted enough that she couldn't find her way out of the familiar hallways of the Istari Building, sprawling though it might be.

Tapping her toes again, Bilba let out a sigh of utter relief when the lift finally dinged its arrival to the top floor, and the brushed steel doors slid open before her, whisper quiet.

It was late enough that the presence of someone else in the lift was startling for an instant, but the man's coveralls, low-slung utility belt, and the wide push broom held in his spindly fingers marked him as one of the maintenance crew. She stepped aside to let the man disembark, but he shook his head, thin sandy hair flopping over his pale brow as he offered her a warm, closed-lip smile.

"Going down," the custodian said— as groggy as she was, she couldn't make out his name on the ID card clipped to his breast pocket without obviously staring, and so she didn't risk trying. She did notice in passing, however, that the grainy little photo did not even begin to do justice to the man's wide, astonishingly blue eyes.

"Ah, right." Somehow, what he'd said didn't entirely make sense, but it had been a terribly long day (after a series of exciting and stressful days), and Bilba dismissed the mutterings of her cotton-fuzzed brain, pulling her suitcase into the lift without further ado. There was a vitally important order to the rest of her evening: a cab, her flat, and then her duvet.

Pressing the button for the ground floor, Bilba brushed her fingers idly through her hair, combing a few stray strands away from her face as the doors closed, and the lift shifted to life with a moment's vertigo. The custodian was humming to himself, very softly, and even in her current mood the tune was much more soothing than annoying.

They had only descended two floors (the Istari lifts were notoriously slow, though thankfully not quite as dizzying as quicker lifts), when the custodian spoke again, breaking the silence with a suddenness that made her jump.

"Oh!" The man was gazing over at her from his slouched stance, his head tilted curiously, and the snubbed bridge of his nose wrinkled. "A pity to see such a pretty lady wearing no jewelry at all. No lovely sparkles on her ears, or gleaming chains 'round her neck. No _rings_."

Bilba felt a chill wash through her, clearing the wooliness from her thoughts almost immediately. There was a very good chance that the man was simply fishing (a bit weirdly) for information about whether or not she was single. He certainly wouldn't have been the first, or the oddest; she had long considered just getting herself a small zirconium to wear on her left hand, to ward off at least a few (generally) well-meaning hopefuls, but she hadn't quite brought herself to actually do it. As much as she endured some unwanted flirting on occasion, suffering under the potential rumour mill wearing a fake wedding ring might cause sounded a thousand times worse.

"I've just gotten back from abroad," she said after a moment's hesitation, not letting even a sliver of the tension pooling in her spine sour her tone. Patting her suitcase handle, Bilba smiled slightly. "And jewelry can be such a bother when travelling."

They were passing the twelfth floor, and every progressive _ding_ of their journey made Bilba's stomach flutter. The custodian was staying well on his own side of the lift, not making a move towards her, but there was something... not quite right about the situation. She wasn't certain if it was anything more sinister than the usual paranoia of a woman alone with a strange man in a confined space, but regardless, she didn't dare relax.

This was not the sort of stress she needed, bugger it all.

"Such a pretty lady would look prettier with a ring." The man rocked on his heels, faded grey trainers squeaking. "A band of gleaming gold, perfect and precious."

The situation was spiralling into properly creepy, and Bilba reached out to punch the button for the next floor instead, seventh, rather than waiting to reach the ground. She could take the stairs instead, preferably after calling Gandalf from her mobile and getting him and at least one security guard the hell down here to walk with her.

It was that precise moment when two terrifying things happened at once, and either alone would have been more than sufficient to make her scream.

Her fingertip had just grazed the button marked _seven_, when clammy white fingers wrapped around her wrist without warning, squeezing tight like an iron band.

And almost simultaneously, the lift groaned alarmingly, the ominous sound of gears grinding together coming from far above her head; their downward motion stuttered sharply, making both Bilba and the terrifying custodian stumble to keep their feet. Then, no more than second or two later, Bilba felt her stomach fly up into her throat as the lift seemed to let go, sending them in a sickening freefall for a heart stopping moment, before knocking them both to their knees with a squeal of brakes and the force of their sudden stop.

The man's grip released in the chaos, and Bilba scrambled away, pressing her back tight against the lift wall and sliding to her feet. The lights went out, plunging the lift into darkness, before flickering back almost immediately to the dimmer yellowish glow of the emergency lights.

The custodian hadn't made a move towards her, kneeling in the centre of the lift floor with his head bowed and his narrow shoulders slumped, but she could still feel the ghost of his fingers clutching hard and bruising around the narrow bones of her wrist. He was a small man, thin and only slightly taller than her, but his grip had been terribly strong.

Her own heart was thunderous in her ears, blood pounding as her glance darted from the man to the emergency phone, but even over that din, she still heard the reedy thread of his voice begin speaking again.

"Baggins—" Her name, drawn out in a hiss at the end, made her shudder despite her best intentions to stifle all reactions. Fear flared cold in her belly, and simply grew worse as he continued, softly sibilating. "Her post box said Baggins, but the pictures... the pictures all say Belle. _La Belle Bijou_, not Baggins. No Baggins anywhere, nowhere. Why is that?"

Tow head tilting up, the man pinned her with eyes gleaming silver as fish scales in the dim light. She knew those eyes.

"Why is she _false?_" Smeagol Rivers spit the question at her furiously, his hands curling over his own knees like claws. "Where are her presents? Why don't you _wear_ them— pretty things for a pretty, precious thing? Why don't you wear my gifts?"

He had lost at least three stone since she'd seen him last (when he'd been led away out of the courtroom in restraints), and had bleached his dark hair to sandy white, but Bilba still cursed herself for not recognizing him sooner. He was meant to be locked up, for god's sake— charged with stalking and harassment, he'd been sectioned five years ago after court proceedings had put the very worst of his condition on display.

In a way, even after enduring the terror of his dogging her steps for months, Bilba still felt a twinge of pity for the man; she could not begin to imagine the torment of the demons that haunted him, forever murmuring in his ears. He was deeply troubled, with a terrible illness that fought back against treatments at every turn, but he was also dangerously obsessed with her, and _that_ was her current concern.

"I didn't want to lose them," she said, very carefully, but didn't try to shuffle towards the phone while he was still watching. "So I left them at home. Did you... did you do something to the lift, Smeagol? To make it stop?"

His laughter was a strident cackling noise, and he actually fell onto his back, rolling with mirth. "Oh no— no, no, _no_, precious, not a thing. Not Smeagol, no— _fate_! It was fate!" Quick as a cat, he was suddenly crouched on the balls of his feet, and Bilba's fingernails scraped the wall behind her, her hand clenching. He had never tried to harm her, violently or sexually; he had never even alluded to it during the worst of his ranting in court, or in any of the unnerving phone calls he'd once made to her old mobile number. When he'd been digging through her bins, peering in the windows of her flat, and leaving bits of stolen jewelry stuffed under her front door or in her letterbox, it had all been frighteningly invasive, but strangely distanced— he had never even touched her before today.

Whether that had been a conscious choice, or merely a lack of opportunity, Bilba certainly wasn't going to risk her safety to find out.

"It was fate," he said again, drawing up to stand; she took a steadying breath as he began to slink near. "_Destiny_, my precio— _uh_!"

It was at that precise moment when two years of kickboxing and a very intensive six-week self-defense course suddenly became the most important things she had ever done with her life. Afterwards, the finer details would blur, but Bilba would always remember the wet crunch of her palm driving up against his nose, the vicious thud of her knee into his groin, and the rush of adrenaline that sent her hand grasping his limp hair and smashing his forehead against the lift floor when he collapsed at her feet.

Breathing hard, her hands trembling ever so slightly, Bilba all but leapt over Smeagol's prone, bleeding body (he was still alive, but he appeared unresponsive), slamming her hand against the emergency intercom button.

"_Help_," she said into the speaker, urgently but pitched low (the thought of Smeagol waking up while they were still trapped inside the lift was not a comforting one, even if she was passably confident in her ability to keep him subdued for a while yet). "This is Bilba Baggins, I'm stuck in the lift, and there's a man here who's tried to assault me. Get these doors _open_, please."

"Miss Baggins?" Bilba didn't recognize the woman's voice on the other end of the line, but she was relieved to hear that her tone was both concerned and composed. "I'm calling for the fire brigade immediately; your lift is stuck between floors, and we've lost power. Are you all right? Where is this man now?"

"He's here. Unconscious for the moment." Keeping her attention on Smeagol, watching hawk-like for the smallest twitch, Bilba wiped one sweaty hand on her thigh and kept her other thumb near the call button just in case they disconnected. She was dressed as she'd been on the plane, in loose-legged lycra trousers and a soft, forest green tunic; her coat and scarf were still slung over her luggage. Luckily enough, the comfortable clothes hadn't restricted her movement at all when she'd put Smeagol down. "But I'm not sure for how long, so quick as you can would be preferable."

"Are you hurt, Miss Baggins?" She knew, logically, that things would probably feel much different once she was safe, but at the moment, Bilba could only stifle giggles against her knuckles, more than a little breathlessly.

"No, not hurt," she managed to say; her eyes may have been a bit gritty, but she blinked hard against the feeling. "But you know, I've had better days."

It didn't take long for the fire brigade to arrive, and even less time for Gandalf to be told of the situation; he and the security guard (her name was Tauriel, Bilba discovered) stayed on the intercom for a tense quarter hour, keeping Bilba up-to-date with the status of her upcoming release. By the time the sound of heavy boots began tromping around outside the steel doors, the rabbiting of Bilba's heart had slowed to a beat that was merely tense, rather than manic, and her hands had stopped shaking.

Then the lift juddered, gears squealing faintly, and the doors were slowly pushed open, inch by inch.

The lift was stuck partially between floors, as Tauriel had told her, but the bottom third of the door was opening to bright lights and empty space; it would be more than enough room for Bilba to slip out, when the firefighter on the other side pried the doors open wider. The officer's forearms were noticeably thick, even under the sleeves of his dark uniform jacket, and his gloved hands were immense, bracing between the doors to pull them farther apart.

"You all right, lass?" A man's face appeared in the gap— strong features, close-cropped dark beard, and a bald head marred with several deep scars. Under other circumstances, he might have looked intimidating enough to make Bilba hesitate, but at that moment, he was an altogether blessed sight. She thought of Bifur, of what a gruesome sight his scars made of such a dear friend, and felt a rush of irrational warmth towards this grizzled firefighter.

"Mostly, yes." Behind her, Smeagol grunted muzzily, as he had been doing since the doors began to open. Abandoning both her suitcase and her surveillance, Bilba dropped to her hands and knees and gave the firefighter a brittle smile. "I'd like very much to get the hell out of this lift."

"That, I can do," the firefighter said, then looked back over his shoulder. "Here, I'll keep the doors secure, you help the lady down. She's a wee one. Feet first, lass, and don't worry about falling. Someone'll catch you."

Bilba was already sticking her legs out the gap before the firefighter had finished speaking, desperate to be somewhere not so stifling. True to that promise, there were hands waiting to take hold of her thighs as she slid out, gripping tightly but not at all painful. The steady grasp migrated up to circle her waist when her bottom left the lift floor entirely, and Bilba found herself carried down gently rather than falling in very short order.

Her eyes were closed, as they had been since the first touch of the other firefighter; she needed a moment to collect herself before she faced the world at large again, and the safe circle of this officer's arms seemed as good a place as any to do so. Clutching two handfuls of his jacket, Bilba took a shuddering breath and pressed her forehead against the solid body before her, using it as an anchor to reel herself back in from the feeling of fluttering away entirely, like so much dandelion fluff.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered, the tightness in her throat making her sound like a frog with a smoking habit. "Jesus... Listen, please, that man, the man in the lift, I've got a restraining order against him. Please, be careful with him; he's not well, not on his medication. He might be dangerous."

"Noted," the first firefighter replied, sounding slightly strained. Then, a moment later, she heard a harsh bark of laughter, sounding slightly muffled. He had moved inside the lift, she realized, when he called back to her. "I think you got him, lass. Laid flat out."

"I think I broke his nose," she said, still quiet and hoarse, and felt the second firefighter's hands seize briefly where they rested supportively on her waist.

"Are you all right, Bilba?"

_That voice_.

Sucking in a surprised gasp, Bilba jerked back, eyes snapping open. Thorin allowed her to step away from him without argument, hands spreading wide and no longer touching her at all.

Thorin, who was standing before her in a black London Fire Brigade uniform, the reflective strips glinting dull silver under the office lights.

Her heart was in her mouth; her head was spinning.

"Bugger," she cursed, _vehemently_, just before the black splotches swimming around the edges of her vision over took the sight of Thorin's frown, dragging her into the cool darkness of a faint.

* * *

Chapter contains: references to stalking/harassment, a threatening situation with a stalker in an enclosed space, an unwanted but non-sexual touch by a stalker, some descriptions of canon-typical violence.


	6. Chapter 6

A few quick things before we get to the chapter:

1. I've made some minor edits to the start of Chapter 5; with any luck, it should now be clearer that Bilba and Gandalf have returned to London from their New York trip (the actual trip itself was not detailed in the story). They left London on a Friday, and arrived back on Wednesday evening. Apologies for any confusion— totally my bad.

2. The Fire Brigade schedule works as follows:  
- Fire stations are staffed 24/7; there are four Watches (Red, White, Blue, and Green), working rotating shifts.  
- Each Watch will work Day Shift (9:30am-8:00pm) for two days, followed by two days of Night Shift (8:00pm-9:30am), then they have four days off.

3. This chapter is Thorin POV, and takes place before/during Chapter 5

4. Also, if you're not following the amazing art being posted on tumblr (tagged #lingerie model au) for this AU (as well as occasional blurbs of extra universe-building details from me), you are missing out.

* * *

"How much longer you going to sulk, then?"

Plucking his old leather jacket off its peg (the same jacket that Kili had made him _swear_ to give over to his youngest nephew if he ever wanted rid of it, even now that it was scuffed grey and worn butter-soft with age), Thorin didn't bother slamming his locker door; he would rather eat his own boots than lose his temper and give Dwalin the pleasure. They had been out at a primary school that afternoon, doing the usual fire safety lecturing (with Fili hamming up dressed in his fire kit), and Thorin had done his absolute damnedest not to grimace through the entire thing. Special errands like that were usually an enjoyable part of the job— while Thorin was reasonably good with children, Dwalin was some kind of long-suffering magnet for the wee and slobbery. Watching a tattooed giant of a man, with his fierce looking scars and gleaming bald head, be pawed at and climbed like a mountain by dozens of sticky little goblins hadn't lost its charm yet, even after nearly a decade.

Today, however, Thorin would privately admit that his heart certainly hadn't been invested in the proceedings. He had gotten through the presentation with his usual professionalism, but he knew he'd not smiled once, and he'd left Dwalin and Fili to deal with the unrehearsed interactions after the scripted talk. He had used the excuse of helping the teachers with most of the wrangling around the truck, but the little ones had deserved better from him.

Fili had been twelve— just barely too old for this sort of visit— when Thorin had first joined the London Fire Brigade, a few weeks after he'd mustered out of the Desert Rats. That year, Kili had delighted in regaling his older brother with tales of just _how brilliant_ their Uncle Thorin was, and did he know that Mister Gloin had once chopped down a door with an axe, and _there's a __**puppy,**__ Fee, and her name is Minty and she licked my hand!_

There had been something infectious about the way Kili's eyes had lit up, and then the same awed look had chased off the jealousy in Fili's gaze after a family trip to the fire station. Given the chance to put a similar brightness on a few more little faces every so often... well, Thorin hadn't stood a chance.

Now seven years later, Fili and Kili were (nearly) men, Minty the Dalmatian-mix had retired to live out her golden years being spoiled rotten by a perpetually eager Kili (after much begging and bargaining with his mother, Dis), and despite enough A-Levels to head off to a few respectable universities, Fili had chosen to apply to the Brigade, passing the training with flying colours. Thorin hadn't really considered that his oldest nephew's juvenile chatter about _wanting to be a fireman_ might survive all the way to this point; it was still surreal to see Fili in the station, kitted out in full gear. It was even more bizarre, and would _never_ stop being worrisome, to see that the lad was now taking the same sorts of risks Thorin did.

Having Fili assigned to Luin Station, and on Blue Watch, had taken a bit of persuasion— having family members on the same shift could, theoretically, cause a dangerous conflict in case of emergency— but there were some benefits to Thorin's authority as Station Manager. If Fili was going to make it his duty to put his life on the line, Thorin was going to be damn sure the lad had the most dependable officers at his back.

Thorin had every intention, however, once a few more years of experience had worn some of Fili's brashness away, of transferring him over to manage one of the other Watches. He certainly had the physical ability and the determination to be a topnotch firefighter; with the proper tempering, Fili had the potential to be an excellent leader, as well.

Pulling his jacket on and yanking up the zip, Thorin made a point of _not_ looking over at Dwalin, who was still leaning against the row of lockers and probably wearing the same too-damned-perceptive expression he'd been sporting since Thorin had trudged in to the station Monday morning. It was now Tuesday evening, the end of their day shifts for this week, and Dwalin hadn't stopped picking at him like a dog with a bone.

"Thorin." He had absolutely no obligation, nor any patience, to tell Dwalin a goddamn thing; stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, Thorin started out towards the station's rear door without a word.

"Oi," Dwalin barked at his back, sharpness layered over honest concern, just serious enough to make Thorin's stride falter. "No more pissing about— something's wrong. Is it Dis, or the lads?"

Resting his fist against the row of lockers, jaw tightening, Thorin took a long breath and kept staring straight ahead.

"Neither," he said eventually, forcing the rigid line of his shoulders to relax. "It's nothing. Just leave it, Dwalin."

Behind him, Dwalin snorted harshly. "I'd be more apt to believe you, if you'd look me in the eye."

"_Damn_ it—" Banging his hand against the steel mesh hard enough to rattle a half-dozen lockers, Thorin turned, levelling the other man with a hard, warning glare. "Can't you just leave well enough alone?"

"I would—" Spreading his hands, Dwalin shrugged, not even pretending to retreat a single inch. "If you were actually _well enough_. You're the one always harping on about keeping work and personal separate, but it's me now. We both know that's a load of bollocks; neither of us would have a damn personal life if it weren't."

Almost anyone else, and Thorin would have stormed out (perhaps after a scathing explanation of how this was absolutely _no one's business, so piss off_). He would have, if it hadn't been Dwalin asking— his brother in arms, in spirit, and everything but blood for decades. The man who'd forever had his back, and saved his life perhaps a dozen times over— in Kosovo, in Basra— in a reciprocal trend that hadn't shown signs of faltering since they'd both moved on to civilian life. Dwalin had been there through burning buildings, bloody emergencies, and horrifying accidents. He had been there, and his brother Balin as well, in those blurry black months after the fire, when Thorin had lost touch with too many things. When he had nearly lost _himself_ in the gutted, charred ruin of his childhood home.

For Dwalin, Thorin forced himself to pause, even if he despised the thought of trotting out such an embarrassing story and exposing his raw nerve to the light of day. He felt like an idiot for letting such a stupid, trivial thing rankle him even this long, aching like an infected splinter.

"I had a date." Or, possibly a date; they hadn't said explicitly, and he wasn't about to assume anything about the woman. The very notion that she'd be interested might have been laughable a month before— for god's sake, she was Belle Bijou, the glamorous and gorgeous model, who was just as impossibly stunning in the flesh as she was in any retouched advert he'd ever seen.

Thorin knew, objectively, that he kept himself in good physical condition; when he'd noticed her eyeing him up at the gym, he had assumed she would simply look her fill and move on. What he hadn't expected at all, not in a million years, was the rise of a petal-pink blush across her cheeks, and a flood of apologetic, painfully endearing stammering when she realised she'd been caught. He hadn't expected her to be so... human.

And while he also knew, perhaps less objectively, that she was a beautiful woman (with her deep blue eyes, the softly blunted line of her nose, and that petite but generously curved figure so _entirely_ his type that it hit him like a punch to the gut), he still hadn't quite expected the sudden rush of warmth that swept through him when she favoured him with a sweet, dimpling smile.

_I'm Bilba_, she'd said, and her hand had felt so small and supple in his grip, but not at all wilting. _I'd like to consider that coffee invitation rescheduled rather than refused._

The feeling had been a sort of odd, bubbling warmth in the pit of his stomach, apparently able to drive all sensible thought out of his head; had he honestly thought Belle Bijou was going to keep some spontaneous, implicit date with _him, _especially after that mess with the cab?

Yes, unfortunately, he had honestly thought she would. More fool him.

"Well ring the fucking Evening Standard," Dwalin said, his scarred eyebrow quirking up crookedly. "You had a date. What was so awful about it that's got your arse in such a twist?"

An ugly grimace stole across Thorin's face, but he schooled his expression back to stony almost immediately; damn it all, just because he _was_ a miserable idiot, didn't mean he had to plod around looking like one.

"She stood me up." And kept his coat, but he wasn't telling Dwalin that on pain of death. That sting cut deeper than the woman could have known. "I thought... Listen, it was a date I was keen to keep, but she obviously wasn't. Nothing to be done about it. Now, if you're through playing agony aunt, I'm off home to get some sleep."

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Dwalin was shrugging his own battered leather bomber over the massive span of his shoulders, and crossing the distance between them in three strides. The clap of his hand on Thorin's biceps was hard enough to rattle teeth.

"Come on," he said, as a supportive slap became a tugging grip around Thorin's upper arm. "We're going for a pint."

They were switching to their night shifts the following day, which meant there was about twelve hours until they were due back in the station Wednesday night. Some of that would necessarily be spent on sleep— he certainly wasn't going to drag himself in unprepared and exhausted to a shift— but he could technically spare the time for a beer or two. It wasn't likely to make him feel worse, at this point, and wasn't _that_ a cheery thought.

"Fine." Jerking his arm out of the tether of Dwalin's grip merely succeeded in earning him a thick arm wrapped round the back of his shoulders, keeping him close. Damn it. "Fine, Christ. But you're buying, and we're _not_ talking."

* * *

"—and then she never showed up." Picking at the curling corner of the beermat sitting under his empty glass, Thorin heaved a short sigh. "End of story."

Sprawled across the other bench of their booth, taking up nearly the entire seat with limbs and bulk, Dwalin waved for the server to bring them another round. It was coming on half-ten, and they'd already had two pints apiece, but Thorin found he preferred the heady feel of good bitter in his gut to the gnawing coldness from before they'd arrived at the pub.

"And kept your coat, as well." Dwalin shook his head, sliding another full, foaming glass in Thorin's direction when the server dropped them off. "Bitch."

"Watch your fucking mouth," Thorin snarled, attention snapping up to glare daggers at Dwalin's unruffled face; oh, of course he'd done that on purpose, the canny prick. The rush of fury fizzled nearly as quickly as it had risen, and Thorin downed a long pull of beer in an attempt to chase the sour taste from his tongue. It wasn't usually this easy for anyone, even Dwalin, to get his back up.

"God damn it," he said after a moment, having emptied half the glass in three hard swallows. "I'm an idiot."

"Aye," Dwalin agreed, tapping his thumb idly against the side of his own dark bitter. "But good on you for having the balls to try punching above your weight after, what's it been? Eight months out of the ring? Belle Bijou— Jesus fucking wept."

Thorin wanted to argue, but found he couldn't: Bilba was a gorgeous, sophisticated woman, and he was some stranger she'd run into twice. Also, rather depressingly, it _had_ actually been eight months since he'd been on a date. Maybe closer to ten.

"Shut up and drink," he said, deflating entirely. "So I can go home and feel sorry for myself in peace."

* * *

By the start of shift Wednesday night, Thorin was still feeling rather wretched, but was sensible enough to hide it. He schooled his irritable scowl into something more neutral, and luckily enough, he had the excuse of paperwork to keep him in his office for a few hours rather than out with the others. Fili had already started giving him concerned side-eyes, and Thorin's blood ran cold at the thought of an inquisitorial call from Dis (or worse still, a visit to his flat).

There was the problem of his coat, as well— it wasn't something he was willing to abandon, and not simply because of the potential embarrassment of explaining its unfortunate fate to family and friends who cared to ask. There hadn't been much salvageable after the fire, and Thorin made a point to guard what few treasures had survived.

When Bilba had disappeared down the pavement, draped nearly neck to foot in that achingly familiar wool, Thorin had been absolutely astonished with himself. He had known just as little about that woman as she'd known about him (except, of course, she'd never seen him in just his pants); he had offered one of his most cherished possessions to a virtual stranger, without an instant of hesitation. He hadn't truly realized the gravity of what he'd done until after the fact, but even left standing there in his shirtsleeves on a chilly January afternoon, Thorin hadn't regretted his startling decision.

Until Saturday morning found him loitering around the gym longer than his usual off-duty workout, and it gradually became apparent that Bilba was not coming.

Thorin was mentally composing a formal, coolly polite request for the coat's return (a letter, perhaps, to be dropped off at the Istari Building that actually sat only a few streets over from Luin Station), when the station intercom blared with the usual warning horn, followed by a calm voice calling for mobilization. On his feet and out of the office immediately, Thorin joined the others in the smooth, automatic process of donning their gear— Gloin had the information printout in hand, already dressed in his kit, and he read out the details of the emergency to the rest of them.

"Elevator rescue, lads—" Thorin frowned, snapping his coat closed; unless there was some sort of medical emergency or other immediate danger, elevator calls were usually left to a building's maintenance staff to deal with, rather than involving the Brigade.

"Two people inside," Gloin continued, sounding worryingly grave. "We're responding due to report of assault by the trapped woman. Police are on their way, but they're farther out."

"_Assault?_" Fili repeated the word with utter horror, already scrambling into the truck's jumpseats with Gloin. Thorin was quick to follow, slipping into the captain's seat while Dwalin took the wheel. Clipping on the radio headset, Thorin patched in to the jumpseat area just in time to hear Fili say "—assaulted her still _in there_ with her? We have to hurry!"

"We are hurrying," Thorin said into the mic, tone sharp. "Focus, Fili. Gloin, where are we going?"

"Istari Building," came the answer, and Thorin's stomach plunged straight down to his feet as Gloin read off the exact address, which Thorin then repeated mechanically to Dwalin.

They peeled out of the station less than two minutes after the first blare of the intercom, but Thorin would count the rest of this call in heartbeats rather than in minutes, until he had Bilba (shivering but not bleeding, clothing intact, no obvious injuries— _oh_ _thank god_) held carefully in his hands.

* * *

"Bugger," she said, staring up at him with wide, startled eyes. He watched the colour drain from her cheeks like water from a sieve— peaches-and-cream fading to sickly white.

And then Thorin was reaching out purely on reflex, catching Bilba's suddenly limp body before she could crumple down to meet the flecked office carpet.

Scooping up her deadweight to rest comfortably in his arms— a bridal carry, his mind provided unnecessarily, for lack of a better term— Thorin spared only a second to gather himself, making certain her head wasn't lolling away from him, before turning to Fili.

"Get a shock blanket," he said, quieter than he might have done without an unconscious woman cradled against his chest.

* * *

_can I also just say a big soppy __**thank you**__ to all of you? Because your response to this AU so far has blown me away, and I am incredibly grateful :)_

_and in case it wasn't entirely clear, firefighter!Thorin used to be an army officer (serving in a unit with Dwalin)._


	7. Chapter 7

The room was spinning— she could feel it rolling around like a boat in stormy seas, even with her eyes still closed. She could also feel a hand stroking ever so gently over her forehead, smoothing her hair back.

_Thorin_.

Oh god, she'd fainted— was he— where— had she _fainted_? The fact that she was currently lying on her back, possibly on the floor, with her head cushioned on something softer than Berber carpet, seemed to support that theory. She certainly didn't recall any conscious decision to have a quick kip in the corridor. Bilba blinked, squinting under the painful glare of fluorescents high above her head, and swallowed back the dangerous lurch of her stomach. Message received: sitting up just then would be a mistake.

A dark shape appeared in her field of vision, haloed by brightness, and the hand on her forehead paused its petting, sliding down to rest butterfly-soft on the side of her face. Blearily, the shadow resolved itself into Gandalf's familiar visage of bushy brows and pale grey beard. He wasn't far enough away to be standing— no, Gandalf was sitting next to her on the carpet, legs straight and ankles crossed, with her head pillowed comfortably on his thigh.

"Ah, thank goodness." Even muddled as she was, Bilba could see the frayed edges of Gandalf's usual tranquil composure, and the strain creasing around his bright eyes, though his smile and the tone of his voice were perfectly pleasant. "How are you feeling, my dear girl?"

She didn't answer immediately, knowing that Gandalf was looking for the truth of the matter, rather than a neatly wrapped reassurance. Instead, she took a breath, and reached up to cup the back of his warm hand with her own, pressing his palm against her cheek.

"A bit shaky," she said quietly, and was rather pleased to find her voice was steady. "But I'm all right. Did I... I fainted? How long was I out?"

"Only a few minutes— hardly any time at all." Glancing away from her, Gandalf waved a hand at someone she could not see, but whose clipped footsteps had drawn near. "Yes, yes, she's awake. Bilba, my dear, there is an officer here to ask you a few questions to help gauge your condition. Would you like to speak with him now, or wait?"

An officer... Bilba's stomach fluttered this time, not the sickening churning of before. She hadn't imagined Thorin, had she? It had only been a moment, but she'd _seen_ him— he'd spoken to her, said her name. He had been the strong, steady hands helping her out of the lift, and the sturdy chest upon which she'd leaned, catching her breath.

Steeling herself again, she let go of Gandalf's hand, dropping her arm back down to brace against the carpet. "Gandalf, help me sit up, please?"

"If you like," Gandalf said with a small sigh, and did just that, supporting her head as the lingering tendrils of the faint and her slowly blooming headache made her neck feel weak and noodley. Gandalf was sitting with his back propped against a wall, just a dozen feet away from the still-stuck elevator, and Bilba settled in to sit pressed close beside him, hip to hip. Her body had been draped with an alarmingly orange blanket, but the warmth of it was welcome, so she adjusted it to keep herself covered from the waist down.

Gandalf was dressed for the plane, as she was— his usual suit jacket had been foregone in favour of a cosy cashmere cardigan, muted lavender with pale pearlescent buttons (it wasn't a jumper that had been bought in any shop, either, but rather handmade by a close friend). Bilba rested her cheek against the soft violet knit and looped her arm into the crook of Gandalf's elbow, allowing him to lace their fingers together loosely.

The man standing over them was not Thorin, she discovered when she finally dared to look, and Bilba felt a sharp twist of disappointment. He was a firefighter, however— younger, perhaps in his twenties, with his helmet tucked under one arm and his sandy hair tousled, in what Bombur might have called an _artfully careless way_.

"Miss, er, Miss Baggins?" The officer tilted his head, and his eyes were shadowed with clear concern. "Are you all right, ma'am? The police should be here soon, ambulance too, but if there's anything I can do in the meantime, we've got a basic medkit, if he— I mean, if you're hurt at all— whatever you need—"

Mustering up a warm smile, tiny though it might be, Bilba shook her head (and then immediately regretting the move when her headache pulsed). "No, no, I'm fine. Not hurt at all, just a little shaken. But thank you, Officer..."

"Oh! Fili— I'm Fili." The young man ducked, a deep, awkward sort of nod that was nearly a bow, but he wasn't quite giving her the impression of a flustered fan. Instead, he seemed genuinely distressed by the thought that she may have been injured, and Bilba found herself wondering what these firefighters had been told about the nature of the emergency.

The lift was still stalled between floors, leaving perhaps a three foot opening into the cab (with the dark maw of the shaft yawning below it); everything was lit brighter again, rather than the ominous yellow emergency glow. The power issue had seemingly been sorted, even if the lift wasn't quite moving yet.

When a pair of booted legs swung out of the very opening from which she had so recently escaped, followed swiftly by the rest of Thorin's body stepping back down onto the corridor floor, Bilba's attention flickered away from the young blond firefighter. Thorin had her suitcase in one hand, and her coat and scarf slung over his elbow.

"Miss Baggins?" Thorin wasn't looking at her, setting her items neatly away from the lift shaft with what appeared to be completely detached professionalism; a small thorn of disappointment prodded her heart, stinging. "Miss Baggins?"

"Sorry—" Focus darting back to a pair of bright, earnest blue eyes, Bilba realized been ignoring the poor lad entirely, and making him fret even more. "Yes. Sorry, still a bit mixed-up. What were you saying?"

"Just, if you're feeling up to it, ma'am, we thought you might want to move somewhere else, maybe one of these offices?" Fili's brow furrowed, and one gloved hand stole up to rub his neck. "We've got to get the... the other occupant out of the lift."

"His name is Smeagol," she replied, very quietly; her skin prickled with gooseflesh. The shuddery tension wasn't fully flushed from her, and primal fear she'd felt during that terrible moment when he had taken hold of her wrist seemed like it might take some time to banish entirely. "And he's not well. He could hurt himself, or one of you."

"We know." Fili was still frowning, but the resolute look he turned on her was reassuring. It was the expression of a man determined to fulfil an obligation, no matter how unpalatable. "We'll keep him safe and secure, until the police and the medics arrive. He's not entirely conscious yet, anyway."

"We should still be elsewhere, I think," Gandalf said, patting her hand briskly. "If only to spare my old bones any longer on this floor. Come, my dear."

Fili offered them both a hand up, and Bilba took the assistance gladly. She also suppressed a wince as her wrist smarted sharply; she'd likely have a very obvious bruise tomorrow, but it didn't feel more serious than that. Keeping her arm around Gandalf's helped with the faint, lingering dizziness, and his warm, familiar presence at her side was even more comforting.

"The police will be here soon," Fili said, glancing over towards the lift, where the first firefighter she recalled seeing, the large bald one, was climbing slowly out. Bilba kept her eyes averted after realizing what sort of burden the officer was carrying; she might not wish Smeagol Rivers any serious ill-will, but she still didn't want to look at him. Or really, be on the same _continent_, if at all possible. "They'll want to speak with you, I imagine, Miss Baggins."

"We'll be just down here." Gandalf motioned down the corridor, waving his hand at some random office door that hung halfway ajar, and Bilba found herself more than willing to be ushered away with haste.

She had no idea in whose office it was— there weren't any photographs on the desk or other personal paraphernalia to even give her a clue— and Bilba was careful not to shuffle any papers about as she settled into the comfortable guest seat, leaving the swivelling desk chair for Gandalf to perch upon. Resting her elbows on the desktop, she pressed her forehead into her palms, taking a few long, deep breaths.

"I'm fine," she murmured, when the pads of Gandalf's fingers gently rubbed over her knuckles; somehow, the light touch managed to sooth some of her headache.

"Really," she continued after a moment of shared silence, lifting her face to rest her chin on her hands, allowing Gandalf to study the truth in her expression. "Really fine. I promise."

Smiling softly, Gandalf kept his arm stretched across the desk long enough to tuck some hair behind her ear. "I know, my dear girl. I have always known— you are a stronger person than even you give yourself credit for."

* * *

The police arrived shortly thereafter, and Bilba was assured that at least two constables would be with Smeagol at all times, until it could be determined why he was no longer under psychiatric care. He had woken, apparently, somewhere between the lift and the ambulance that would take him to the hospital; Bilba flinched when he began to wail, the chilling scream echoing faintly from the corridor before fading completely as he was dragged off beyond her hearing.

Saruman had also descended from on high to oversee the proceedings, though that wasn't all that surprising— he was, of course, taking full advantage of the opportunity to glower balefully at the emergency responders, explaining in great detail precisely how displeased Istari Incorporated (and Istari Incorporated's fleet of legal representatives) would be if the details of this unfortunate affair came to light in the press. The story would be reported, but Bilba's name would _not be mentioned._

If it were anyone else blustering on, Bilba would have expected to wake tomorrow with every gossip mag branded with a stock photo of herself and that terrible image of Smeagol snarling at reporters as he was led into the courtroom. But Saruman Belov had an impressive, somewhat terrifying ability to get his way, no matter the circumstances (except when faced with the combined mulish resolve of Gandalf and Radagast). With Saruman's media chokehold latching on quick and firm, Bilba would be surprised if she read more than a passing mention of this in the papers, all details vague and kept below the fold.

He had also slipped into the office for a moment, long enough to ask after Bilba's health; it was a brisk, no-nonsense inquiry— _are you well, Bilba_— but the fact that he'd asked at all was a pleasant surprise.

She reassured Saruman of her continued health, and a constable was ready to take her statement, but damn it all, she had no intention of letting Thorin vanish off with the other firefighters. Not without even attempting to explain herself, and apologize for standing him up; whether or not he was interested, at the very least she needed to return his coat.

"I'm sorry," she said to the constable, not above feigning a bit of distress if it gave her a few minutes to dash out and possibly catch Thorin. Waving her hand at her face, she got to her feet. "I need a moment, please, just to step out for some air. So sorry, Constable; I won't be two shakes, I swear—"

And before anyone could argue, she was out in the corridor, slipping back off towards the lift and the murmur of voices still about. Fili was nowhere to be seen, nor indeed was the bald firefighter or the one with the dark ginger beard; there were a few police milling around, giving her appearance questioning looks, but that didn't matter.

Thorin had his back to her when she came around the corner; his helmet was missing, and his hair was flattened in a way that made her fingers twitch to comb it out. She squashed that thought almost instantly, hands fluttering awkwardly against her own thighs, and cleared her throat.

"Thorin?" His shoulders stiffened, body freezing utterly for a second or two, before he glanced back at her with that same unreadable expression she remembered from that first meeting at the gym. In his hands, he was holding the heavy cotton blanket she'd left behind when she and Gandalf had relocated; Thorin had been in the process of folding it into a neat square, but he stopped when she spoke.

"Hello," she said, pinching and plucking at the hem of her shirt. Her fingers wouldn't stop their nervous movement.

After a long, dense span of silence, Thorin finally responded, perfectly neutral. "Hello."

Then, after a moment's pause, he turned fully to face her; the blankness of his expression wavered, and she felt the cold knot of her stomach ease ever so slightly, though it didn't release entirely.

"How are you?" he asked quietly, and much like she had done with Gandalf, Bilba considered her answer carefully before she responded.

"I have a headache." She smiled, just lifting one corner of her mouth. "And I'm gasping for a cuppa and a few hours of sleep. But otherwise, I'm all right." Thorin didn't offer a smile in return, and a fresh pulse of panic loosened her tongue even further.

"I'm sorry," she said, gaining sudden steam. "I had every intention of seeing you Saturday, of going for coffee if you wanted— there honestly wasn't anything I wanted to do more, but there was an emergency. An emergency with _work_, and then suddenly I was on a plane Friday evening, and I didn't have any way to contact you, and I just got back tonight—" Pointing at her luggage sitting nearby, Bilba took a deep breath; she was blathering like an idiot, but Thorin wasn't stopping her or walking away. She chose, with a great swell of optimism, to take that as a good sign.

"I'm so sorry," she said again, staring up into his cool eyes and willing him to believe her. "I swear, I never meant to stand you up."

Thorin blinked, and his dark brows lowered, putting a small, furrowed line between them.

"You—" He stopped, shaking his head, and rubbed one gloved hand over his jaw. It was stubbled again, but lighter this time than their first meeting. "So it... it was a date, then?"

"Of course it was!" The words blurted out almost indignantly, but before Bilba could slap her hand over her mouth or otherwise try in vain to bite her exclamation back, Thorin's face seemed to split before her.

The half-smiles he'd turned on her before were handsome enough, but they were a candle next to the bonfire of this grin, broad and true, with white teeth gleaming and crinkles forming around his quickly thawing eyes. This was a beautiful expression, and Bilba found her heart skipping foolishly at the sight of it.

She watched him try to rein it back into impassiveness, but that was a bit like closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. She'd already seen a hint of the irrepressible happiness lurking beneath, and she wasn't likely to forget it soon.

"Of course it was a date," she said, not bothering to stifle the shy smile creeping up her face. "But if you'd rather not ask me again, after what happened last time—"

"Bilba, would you like to have coffee with me?"

She managed not to laugh, but it was a close thing; the urge wasn't born of any sort of teasing, but from the giddiness bubbling up through her stomach like hiccoughs.

"I'd love to," she said instead, beaming. Gandalf, for once, didn't have the worst timing on the face of the earth, and had just appeared around the corner. Bilba kept her attention firmly on Thorin, even as Gandalf drew up upon them. "Tomorrow?"

"Ah, I'm working tomorrow," Thorin said, glancing momentarily at Gandalf as the man came to stand behind Bilba's shoulder (not quite crowded close enough to interrupt the conversation, but just near enough that Bilba could not ignore him for long). "Friday?"

She had no idea what her schedule was supposed to be like for the rest of the week— the New York trip had thrown everything out of whack— but she nodded regardless. Whatever issues might crop up, she would make it work, come hell or high water.

"Sure, yes, lovely. Really lovely." Gandalf's presence made everything feel rushed, but she was determined to prepare for eventualities this time. "Yes, Friday. I'd like to give you my mobile number, and you can ring me, or text—" she began to say, only to have Gandalf's hand appear beside her face, with a crisp cream-coloured business card held between his index and middle fingers.

"Here you are, my dear. Your information for the gentleman," Gandalf said, and he had the audacity to _twinkle_ at her with delight. If he was really so pleased with her stammering over making a date, perhaps he shouldn't have made her break the last one, damn it (and the fact that he hadn't actually _known_ about the last one was completely irrelavent). "The good constable would like to speak with you now, Bilba, if that's convenient."

"Ah, right." _Damn it, __**damn**__ it_. Plucking up the card, Bilba didn't notice it looked different until it was already passed over to Thorin's waiting hand. The mobile number was correct, she noted with great relief, but before she could read any more, Thorin had the card tucked safely away in one of the pockets of his coat.

She couldn't ask for it back, just to see it. That would be too odd.

She _couldn't_, not with Thorin giving her that warm, hopeful look that brightened his gaze and made her feel like she'd just won the lottery. So she said nothing, except some mumbling, silly version of good-bye, and offered Thorin a wave as she followed Gandalf back down the corridor.

_**Damn**__ Gandalf Legris_.


	8. Chapter 8

When Thorin climbed back into the fire engine, it immediately became apparent that he hadn't _quite_ managed to wipe the grin off his face.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Dwalin peered over at him from behind the wheel, eyes narrowed. Thorin, in response, studied the radio a bit more intently than was warranted; his mouth may have been curling up a bit at the corners. "You've _got_ to be joking."

"Shut up," Thorin said cheerfully, and slid the firecom headset on one ear, patching in to Gloin and Fili back in the jumpseats.

"—Belle Bijou!" Fili's voice was once again the first thing Thorin heard through the com, though his nephew's tone was much happier now than it had been on the way to the Istari Building. "I can't even believe... Gloin, did you see her? You saw her, right there, in real life? Talking to me? Holy shit, I just met _Belle Bijou_! Kili's going to lose his mind—"

"Fili!" Good humour souring in one swift stroke, Thorin adjusted the mic. The scowling executive hadn't scared him with those cool threats about legal action, but the man hadn't needed to make the effort; even without Bilba's contact information feeling so weighty in his pocket, Thorin would not have tolerated gossip mongering about a situation like this. "Keep your tongue in your head, and remember that woman is entitled to her privacy, and your respect. You know better."

Dwalin snorted incredulously, starting up the engine and shifting the truck into drive. Thorin ignored him, listening to the uncomfortable silence suffusing the jumpseat area.

"Sorry, Uncle," Fili said after a moment, subdued. "I just... Sorry."

"And stop eying up Uncle's girlfriend, there's a good lad," Dwalin said under his breath at the same time, thankfully quiet enough not to be picked up by the mic. Thorin still reached over and punched him hard in the shoulder.

* * *

"Gandalf." Catching her incorrigible boss by the elbow, Bilba stopped them both in the corridor a few feet from the office door, still out of sight of the police officer within. "What was on that card? That _wasn't_ my business card."

"Hm?" Gandalf hummed at her, somehow simultaneously managing to look almost entirely inscrutable, and pleased as punch. "Whatever do you mean, dear girl?"

It was a very close thing, but Bilba managed to refrain from either stomping her foot like a child, or stomping _on_ his foot. There was a certain amount of decorum she clung to, mulishly, even when dealing with impossibly frustrating old nutters.

"I have had a very long day," she said, squeezing her eyes closed and pressing her free hand against her faintly throbbing temple. "Just... Whatever you've done, just please tell me you've not buggered up my date."

Breathing deep— in through her nose, out through her mouth— Bilba opened her eyes again, hoping for at least some kind of reassurance. What she found was a cream coloured card being held out in front of her nose, emblazoned with the same glossy black font and silver ampersand she expected from a Garnished & Gilded business card. She had a dozen like it stuffed inside her wallet, and a box of them in a desk drawer at her flat.

_Garnished & Gilded_ was scrawled in large copperplate script, with _Fine Lingerie_ typed in neat smallcaps beneath. The contact information printed near the bottom was perfectly correct— the Istari building address, her mobile phone number, her business email, Gigi's website— but it was the startling presence of her real name, and the byline beneath, that caught Bilba's eye.

_Belle Bijou, Model—_ that was how all the cards in her wallet read. Those were three words she had carried on little rectangles of cream coloured card for nearly ten years, ever since Gandalf had taken her out for dinner one evening, during her first year of uni, and slid a box of one hundred freshly printed cards across the restaurant table.

_Bilba Baggins_, this card said, and under that: _Assistant Director_.

She stared at the words for a long moment, not entirely believing her eyes. Then, she let go of Gandalf's arm, stepping back, and pointed accusingly at the card.

Her mouth worked wordlessly, but not soundlessly. Someone squeaked, like air escaping a balloon; the noise stopped when Bilba clamped her teeth shut.

"Congratulations, my dear." Gandalf's eyes crinkled deeply at the corners in a fond smile, and he swept an arm towards the door in a grand gesture. "Shall we?"

"Shall—" Reining her voice back down from an indignant squawk, Bilba hissed between clenched teeth. "We most certainly shall _not_! What is that... that nonsense? _Assistant Director_? I'm not—"

"Is it within the realm of possibility," Saruman snapped, stepping out into the corridor from the office door, looking more thunderous than usual. "To move this along at something approaching a reasonable pace? Bilba, the officer is waiting to take your statement, and I am waiting to get back to my business. Which I cannot do, as long as there are police cluttering up my building."

"Did you know about this?" Swatting her hand in the direction of the card, not willing to touch it directly, Bilba turned to Saruman. "This... _this_! For goodness sake, I'm not _director_ of anything!"

"I should think not." Saruman sniffed, folding his arms across his chest. His only wardrobe concession to the lateness of the hour, which was inching ever closer to midnight, was a lack of suit jacket over his crisp white shirt and inky black waistcoat; even his pale blue tie was still knotted impeccably. "_Assistant_ Director, and only of Garnished & Gilded. As we agreed, Gandalf."

"Indeed," Gandalf said, while Bilba sputtered, completely lost. Finally, Gandalf placed his hands upon her shoulders, anchoring her with his reassuring touch and keen, steady gaze.

"I say you are Assistant Director of Garnished & Gilded, Bilba Baggins." She began to protest again, but Gandalf held her steadfast, towering over her not simply with physical height, but also with a surge of gravitas. "And so Assistant Director, you are— as well as our finest model. You are both, as you have been in all but name for quite some time."

* * *

It was absolutely no use arguing with Gandalf, of course, so Bilba trudged into her police interview in a bit of a daze, answering all the officer's questions to the best of her abilities.

Then eventually, blessedly, she was ushered out of the building (after a quick stop by the security office and effusive thanks to a statuesque Tauriel), with a police officer keeping comfortably close by her side.

She did not expect the sight that greeted her when she stepped out into the night air, but Bofur's waiting arms were certainly a welcome surprise.

"There she is." Leaning against a waiting cab with a packet of cigarettes tapping between his fingers, Bofur looked entirely frazzled, wrapped up in his old brown duffle coat and a pair of jeans. Jeans that must have been Nori's, too short in the leg, leaving strips of sagging socks visible above his trainers. Even the flaps of his ridiculous hat were drooping. "There's my darlin'."

The officer escorting Bilba out of the building and to a police car— they had offered her a ride home— tensed. "Ma'am," the officer said questioningly, but Bilba was already waving her off with hasty assurances and thanks for all her help. Bilba closed the distance across the pavement in quick strides, not stopping until she had her face pressed against the scratchy wool of Bofur's coat, and his arms were squeezing just a shade too tight around her back.

"I'm fine," she said, for what felt like the thousandth time that night, but still burrowed close into Bofur's solid, familiar body. He pressed a kiss against her head, and she felt his breath gusting warm into her hair, huffing out in a great, relieved sigh.

"Course you are," he mumbled, low and gruff, then pulled away just enough to look down into her face, with his arms kept looped around her. "I reckon you're past ready to get home, eh? Would you rather yours or mine?"

"Mine," she answered, with only a moment's hesitation; as pleasant as Bofur's flat was, she felt an aching sort of need to be on more familiar ground. She wanted to shut her own front door against the world and crawl into her own bed for a bit. "What are you even doing here?"

"Gandalf texted me." Untangling himself a bit more, though keeping one arm curled around Bilba's waist, Bofur reached back and popped the cab door open. "She's fine," he said to Nori, who was slouched in the backseat, wearing a black hoodie and what looked like a pair of pyjama bottoms in dark green plaid. His long brown hair was wound up in a messy bun at the nape of his neck.

"Of course she is." Nori's smile was a quick thing, gleaming sharp as knife in the jaundiced light of the cab's interior. He patted the seat beside him. "Come on, then. You're letting all the heat out."

"In you go," Bofur agreed, and Bilba found herself sandwiched between the pair of them in short order, giving the cabbie directions to Carrock House, up on Gladden Street. The handsome old building had been an expansive Georgian property at one point, but had long since been converted into several beautiful, well-lit flats.

Bilba had no desire to rehash the lift incident again that evening, not after walking through everything with the police once already, and neither Bofur nor Nori seemed inclined to push for details. Most of the drive was spent in easy silence, with her shoulders tucked under the weight of Bofur's arm, and one of Nori's hands laced through her own. She considered the card in her jacket pocket, _Assistant Director_, but even that seemed like too daunting a topic to broach in the peaceful hush of the cab.

Bofur only asked one question, and thankfully it wasn't a difficult one to answer at all. "The sofa-bed free for the evening, darlin'?"

"If you like," Bilba said, quietly relieved. She was still feeling skittish, and spending her night in an empty, silent flat would not have helped matters; she was going to wake up thinking there was someone else in the shadows, regardless, so it may as well be someone real.

When they pulled up outside her flat, Bofur paid the fare while Nori took her bag, leaving Bilba floundering with nothing to do but fish her keys from her coat. Inside Carrock, the corridor was lit dimmer than usual, but that oddity was quickly and easily explained by the astonishingly massive man currently changing a bulb in one of the wall sconces.

"Good evening, Beorn." Bilba twiddled a wave at her enormous landlord, who never even bothered to pretend he needed a step stool (let alone a ladder) to reach any of the lights in the building. The man was seven feet tall if he was an inch, and built like a bear, with a wide barrel chest and arms nearly thicker than her waist; add to that an abundance of wiry black hair (from his bushy beard, to the pelt that peeked from his shirt collars and trailed down his forearms), as well as a stern suspicion of strangers, and Beorn Urs cut quite the intimidating figure.

He also never seemed to bloody _sleep_, forever tinkering around the building at all hours. Who changed a lightbulb at ten past one in the morning, for goodness sake?

"Welcome home, little bunny!" Bilba flinched, partly due to the silly nickname, but also because Beorn's booming greeting likely woke at least one or two unfortunate neighbours. "I found your note; your wee green babies are happy as pigs in muck, all watered and tended. The hoya is blooming like mad."

"Ah, thank you," she said, wiping her feet. "I'll make you a crumble this weekend, shall I?" Beorn grumbled good naturedly about it being no trouble, but didn't actually _refuse_ the offer of freshly made pudding. Bilba smiled, enjoying a rush of contentment at the thought of her plants thriving even without her careful nurturing; she had made the mistake of asking Bofur to care for them once during a three week trip to Spain, and came back to a flat littered with miserable wilted greenery.

Beorn turned a distinctly unimpressed glance toward Bofur and Nori, but he allowed them to follow Bilba up the stairs without comment— they had passed the gauntlet of suspicious glares and interrogations years ago, and were now permitted relatively free access to the building. Up past the landing, then down to the end of the corridor brought them to her door, painted a bright, nostalgic kelly green that reminded her so strongly of a sunny little cottage in the West Midlands.

"I'm going to sleep for a year," she announced to the flat at large, the moment the three of them tumbled inside. "After I fetch you some blankets—"

She stalled, stumbling over her own feet when Nori bumped into her back, but didn't fall.

Her coatrack. Her coatrack was empty.

_Thorin's coat._

"Don't worry about that, darlin'," Bofur was saying, shedding his own coat and his hat, and toeing off his trainers. "I know my way around your linen cupboard. You just pop off to bed."

"Coat." Her throat was tight; the word was hardly louder than a squeak. "_Coat_."

"Hm?" Setting her suitcase to one side, padding casually into the flat and dragging Nori along, Bofur seemed too busy flicking on lamps to immediately notice her panic. It wasn't until Nori's elbow connected sharply with his ribs that Bofur caught on to her blank staring at the coatrack.

"Coat," she said again, desperately; she couldn't show up for a date with Thorin, without his coat. She could not have _lost his coat_.

"It's still at the cleaners." Whipping her head around, Bilba pinned Bofur with an incredulous stare, wild-eyed enough to make him lean back. "Whoa, easy now. You asked me to take it in, love. Remember?"

The text. She'd sent the text asking him to get a wet coat drycleaned, and hadn't said _which coat_.

"Oh god." Relief was like a bucket of water dumped over her head, washing away the tight chill of anxiety. She sagged, and for the second time that night (though in an admittedly less dire situation at the moment), Bilba found herself stifling giggles against her hand.

Apparently satisfied that her laughter was a good sign, even if it was a wee bit frantic around the edges, Bofur shifted a few books out of the way and knelt on the sofa, leaning over the arm to waggle his eyebrows at her. "Oh, aye. Let's talk about that fancy old coat, eh? And perhaps you've got a tale or two about the likely tall and well-built bloke belonging to it? Has our dear Miss Baggins has been keeping secrets?"

Just as suddenly as the relief had come, so came the faint heat of a flush, creeping up her neck.

"Are they _sexy_ secrets," Bofur continued, grinning with his chin propped up in his hands. "Because that was a damned sexy coat, believe you me—"

"If you shut him up," Bilba said, shooting a glance at Nori. "I'll do a fry up for breakfast. Eggs, beans, and all."

"Hey—" Bofur began to protest, while Nori simply said: "Sausages?"

She nodded, and Nori's hand snapped out quick as a snake to grab Bofur by the back of the shirt collar, hauling the other man down onto the sofa cushions. Before Bilba could even blink, Nori was perched on Bofur's chest, with a throw pillow brandished menacingly.

"Button it, Bofur." Dodging all attempts to snatch the pillow, Nori somehow managed to take hold of both of Bofur's flailing wrists and pin them to the sofa one-handed. "I will smother you for sausages, I swear to god. Bifur's switched ours for meatless, _again_, and they taste like sawdust and shit."

"Oh lord liftin'... You're worse than Bombur, you greedy arse." Going dramatically limp, Bofur rolled his neck enough to peer over at Bilba. "And _you_— I'll have it out of you tomorrow, once you're rested and I'm a bit farther removed from imminent death. Don't think I'm above tickling it out of you, either."

She didn't think that for a moment, but at the very least she'd bought herself some time to consider what she was going to say. Retreating off to her room after saying her goodnights, Bilba thought about how she'd describe Thorin.

She managed to work her way down the list from _ridiculously handsome_ to _astonishingly thoughtful_, and all the way back to _really, honestly __**ridiculously**__ handsome_ again before she fell asleep. Her mobile was charging on the bedside table, and she was wearing the daftest little smile, pressed into her pillow.


	9. Chapter 9

It was nearly eleven in the morning; Thorin had left the station a little more than an hour earlier, sparing a distracted nod for Red Watch as they arrived at nine-thirty to relieve Blue. He'd taken his bike to work, as usual— more comfortable than the tube, cheaper than taxies, and he had a guaranteed space to park it at the fire station— and the ride home through morning traffic had gone by in a blur.

At least the roads had been drier than the week before. It would have been just his luck to get a beautiful woman's phone number, then skid over a wet drain cover and smash head-on into a bus.

Sitting at his small kitchen table, Thorin rested his elbows on the dark wood and propped his chin on his folded hands. His mobile sat on the tabletop, its screen dark; beside that, there was cream coloured business card, and a tumbler glass of some thick, pea green slurry... presumably meant to be a beverage.

The drink— a smoothie of some kind or other— had been waiting for him in the refrigerator Monday evening when he'd gotten home from work, sitting ominously in an old glass milk bottle. It was part of a relentless, ruthless campaign by Dis to make certain he was getting whatever weird mix of dark greens, super fruits, and seeds she had decided he needed this week. Thorin had learned years ago that arguing with her about his own diet (which was _fine_) was not a battle worth the causalities, and so now he ate whatever she dropped off with only perfunctory grumbling about the stranger recipes.

He didn't bother throwing anything out and lying about having eaten it; somehow, she always knew. When he'd mentioned that freakish polygraph-like power in passing, complaining about her mother-henning over a Sunday meal with her and the lads, he had been inundated by matching looks of intense, dramatic empathy stealing across Fili and Kili's faces.

Staring consideringly at his mobile, Thorin took a sip of the smoothie, trying very hard not to smell it overmuch— the taste was fine, a bit tart, but under the strong scent of apples and banana, there was a thread of something that stank faintly like fish and old socks. It was better, he had learned, not to ask for details. Ignorance could occasionally be bliss.

At this particular moment, however, Thorin was feeling uncomfortably ignorant regarding what his next move should be. He had Bilba's mobile number. Tomorrow was Friday.

He needed to set up this date.

"Shit," he said, taking a larger swig of the smoothie than was perhaps wise, and pulling a face.

He would have rung her, likely (possibly) with minimal fuss, if he didn't already know the sort of hellish night she'd just suffered. The last thing he wanted to do was wake her up, if she'd just managed to get a few hours of rest. But if he intended to be at all fit for his shift this evening, and still all right for thus-far theoretical coffee on Friday, he needed some bloody sleep as well.

He could text her instead, which was a less demanding and immediate sort of communication, but what the hell was he meant to say in a _text_? Especially when she didn't have his number already; he'd have to introduce himself. How was that meant to go?

_Hello. This is Thorin_.

God, that sounded awkward.

He wasn't entirely certain how it was possible to feel simultaneously like a thirteen year old boy and a two hundred year old fossil, but the smooth glass of his mobile screen had somehow evoked that in him. Or maybe it was the neatly embossed card that had him feeling as clumsy as Dwalin after too many pints.

_Bilba Baggins_.

_Bilba Baggins, Assistant Director_.

He hadn't expected that, to be honest, but he wasn't exactly up to date on the inner workings of lingerie company corporate hierarchy. Bilba obviously used a pseudonym for her modelling (even if she hadn't introduced herself as _Bilba_, no one's name was actually _Belle Bijou_); he wondered if it meant anything that she hadn't used that pseudonym when they'd first met. Surely more people recognized her as Belle.

Damn it, he was getting distracted. Finishing off the smoothie, Thorin pushed out his chair and took the glass over to the sink, rinsing the green film from the inside. If he left the residue, it would be infuriating to get clean later; he deliberately didn't consider what that might mean for his gut.

His phone beeped, screen lighting up with a text alert, and for one mad second, Thorin's pulse quickened. Which was a ridiculous reaction for several reasons, not the least of which being that Bilba _didn't have his number_.

The text, as it happened, was from Dwalin. It read simply: **ring her you tit**.

**Piss off**, Thorin typed out in return, knowing full well that ignoring the text was simply asking for a flood of more, each more abusive than the last. Before sending, he paused, then added: **doing it now**.

There wasn't a response, which meant Dwalin might be leaving him be to make the call, or possibly the other man had simply sent the original text before shuffling off to bed. Either way, Thorin was alone again, with only his phone and a business card for silent, expectant company.

He couldn't text her— not for this. It felt too graceless, too impersonal, and too distant.

And perhaps he was selfish enough to want to hear her voice.

"Shit," he said again, and picked up the card, studying the number for a long moment before punching it into his phone.

"Hello?" She picked up on the third ring, and Thorin stepped away from the table, already starting to pace slowly around his flat. She didn't sound groggy, as though he'd woken her, but she didn't sound alone either.

"—keep her. Like the cutest wee pet, and she feeds _us_!" The man's voice in the background was loud, Irish, and full of laughter. Thorin swallowed, his tongue feeling foolishly dry, and his own words still came out gruffer than he'd intended.

"Hello, Bilba? It's Thorin."

"Oh!" There was a bit of a scuffle on the other end of the line, a muffled hiss that sounded very much like Bilba telling someone to _shut up_, then her voice returning, sounding warm and happy in his ear.

"Good morning," she said, the words curling around a smile he could _hear,_ as well as imagine.

"Good morning," he returned, pausing his pacing to rest his forehead against the refrigerator. Her card was still in his hand, and he slid it onto the worktop before he worried the edges unintentionally. His own smile was a weird, twitching thing, but it was there on his face all the same. "I— how are you?"

"Better." The cool stainless steel of the freezer door was oddly nice, but Thorin found himself needing to move about again, stepping back to wander a loop around his small kitchen. "Thank you for asking. Much better. How are you?"

"Fine. I'm fine, thanks. Listen, about Friday—" Rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, Thorin leaned against the counter and peered up at his ceiling. "I'm looking forward to it, to coffee. How does The Silver Platter Café suit, at seven?"

He had assumed she would know the place, or at least know of it— it was a cosy little café just around the corner from the gym where they'd first met, and though he'd only been in twice himself, Thorin had been pleased with the service and the food on both occasions. The dead silence on the other end of the line did not seem like an especially positive response, however.

"The Silver Platter," Bilba said finally, barely two seconds before Thorin had scrambled enough thoughts together to suggest something else. She sounded strange, her voice gone softer, and he wished fervently that he could see her expression. "Yes, that's... that's my favourite café."

"Really." It wasn't a question; it was a single word crackling with dry disbelief, and Thorin hadn't meant to voice it at all. At least, not quite so cynically.

When she laughed, quiet but honest, he felt the tight, twisted up ache in his stomach release. He inhaled deeply, tilting the phone away from his mouth for a moment.

"Yes, really." Her own breath was still chuffing faintly, amused. "Which is why you startled me with the suggestion. You said seven?"

"Seven, yeah."

"That suits me; the Silver Platter at seven tomorrow. Thorin?"

He thought, he _hoped_, she sounded pleased. "Yes?"

"I'm looking forward to it, too, and not just for the coffee either— though the coffee there is delicious." She paused, only for a second or two, and Thorin didn't fight the broad, probably foolish grin that started to spread across his face. She definitely sounded pleased, but not brashly confident, and that was oddly comforting. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again, and in less dire circumstances if we can manage it. No lifts; no puddles."

"I don't know about that. Do you think you'll still fancy me if I'm not a daring rescuer?" Making her laugh on purpose made the sound even more lovely; this was going _well_.

"Oh, I suppose you'll have to take that chance... and who said I fancy you?"

"Call it a hunch." Steeling himself, Thorin added: "And if you had a similar suspicion, I wouldn't be terribly surprised."

Bilba hummed a wordless, agreeing noise, and the loosening knot in Thorin's stomach turned into a warm weight instead. Then there was silence between them again, but this time it was much more comfortable— a mutual break for quiet thought, knowing that the other was still listening.

"You said you work today," she said eventually, questioningly, and Thorin found himself nodding slightly, though she couldn't see it.

"Tonight, night shift. Today I'm sleeping." Though sleep seemed miles off at the moment.

"Well, then I should leave you to it." That was true, no matter how much Thorin wanted to disagree. "I... I hope you sleep well, Thorin."

"Thank you." He closed his eyes, just listening. "Until tomorrow?"

"Until tomorrow," she agreed. "Bye, for now."

"Bye." He waited for the subtle shift from quiet to the emptiness of a disconnected call before lowering the phone from his ear, smearing his thumb across the screen. Slipping it into his pocket, Thorin huffed a short sigh, then pushed off from the counter, padding down towards his bedroom and pulling his tshirt up and over his head. There wasn't any excuse now; he needed sleep.

Less than five minutes later found him back in the kitchen, stripped down to just his pants. Bilba's card was still on the worktop where he'd left it, and Thorin snatched it up before moving it to the relatively safety of his wallet instead, tucked behind an old photo of Fili and Kili during a summer holiday in Cornwall, all pudgy cheeks and baby-toothed grins.

* * *

"Oh my god." Sitting on the edge of her bathtub, Bilba pressed her hand against her mouth and stared down at her mobile. They'd made a date, with a time and a place and everything, and she had somehow refrained from babbling into the phone like a loon.

But _The_ _Silver Platter_.

"Oh my god," she said again, scrambling to her feet. "Oh _shit_."

She had enough presence of mind to quickly save Thorin's number to her contacts, just in case her mobile decided to do something horrid like delete the call history, but then she was rushing back out into the kitchen in a flurry. Bofur and Nori were sitting around her table, polishing off their generous late-morning breakfasts, and both turned eager, anticipative looks in her direction the moment she appeared.

Then, almost immediately, both their expressions fell.

"Ah," Bofur said, while Nori turned back to his beans with a frown and an aggressive stab of his fork. "That's not a happy face, my darlin'. Just tell me what stupid arsehole we have to kill. Is it Mister Posh Coat? That tosser—"

"No, no—" Waving off the no doubt colourful barrage of threats and insults Bofur was more than willing to bring to bear in her defence (some of which, she was certain either he or Nori would actually enact if she truly asked), Bilba dropped to sit in an empty chair, dragging her own half-eaten plate close. Her eggs had gone cold and rubbery, but the fried mushrooms were still quite edible. "No one is killing anyone, thank you. It was good, very good... I've got a date, tomorrow."

"And yet we're not singing from the rooftops," Bofur said carefully, while Bilba popped a mushroom into her mouth, chewing morosely. "Help me out here, love."

Swallowing, Bilba sucked a bit of grease from her thumb, then turned to Nori with a deadly grave expression on her face. Nori, for his part, froze under the scrutiny.

"If you'd had a choice," Bilba began. "How long would you have waited to introduce Bofur to Dori?"

There hadn't been any choice in the matter, in their case; Bofur had known Dori Rison through work before he'd even met Nori. Dori, who had been quite the accomplished model for Gigi's men's line until his retirement from the business years ago, and who was now the proud owner and operator of gorgeous little café and tea shop— called _The Silver Platter_— only a short walk from Bilba's usual gym.

Dori, who was a darling man, a caring friend, and an _incredibly _nosy old worrywart.

Setting his fork down, Nori studied Bilba's face for a long, curious moment, before shifting his attention to Bofur, then back to her again.

"Er... Ten years?" Chewing his lip briefly, Nori shrugged. "No, maybe twenty. Forty years, at the outside."

Before Bilba could attempt to smother her growing worry with more mushrooms, and perhaps some streaky bacon, Bofur was reaching over to pinch Nori's chin with his thumb, then planting a soft, sweet kiss against the other man's lips.

"What was that for," Nori murmured after Bofur pulled away; neither of them noticed Bilba sneaking bacon from Bofur's plate. There wasn't a single sausage left on the entire table.

"For forty years, you soppy bastard," Bofur said, claiming another kiss before releasing Nori's chin and pointing a finger in Bilba's direction as he settled back in his chair, wearing the most ridiculously blissful grin. "And don't think I missed that, sneak thief."

"Mister Posh Coat," Bilba said, ignoring the accusation even as she held a partially eaten slice of bacon daintily between her fingers. "Wants to meet for coffee at The Silver Platter, tomorrow, and I said _yes_."

"Shit," Nori said, the twin spots of pink fading slowly from his cheeks, while Bofur settled for a succinctly apprehensive: "Oh."

"Exactly," Bilba agreed, and finished off her bacon in two sharp bites.

* * *

_AN: this is the last chapter before we get to the actual date, I swear. I will pummel my own creative process into submission if it tries to drag this out any further. But this was just too much fun, so no apologies :D_

_Also, if you're interested in a bit of back story about Thorin's motorcycle, you can find it (and a lot more) over on my tumblr (__**pibroch**__)_


	10. Chapter 10

"That is perhaps the stupidest—" Dori bent down, sliding a tray of petit fours back into the gleaming glass display, and Bilba didn't bother leaning farther over the counter. Muffled or no, the derision in his tone was thicker than the rich fondant layered artfully over the elegant little cakes. "—maddest, most ill-conceived notion I've heard in _ages_."

Straightening up again, wiping his hands on the cloth he'd set aside for just such a purpose, Dori levelled her with a withering look, all skeptically arched eyebrows and tightly pursed mouth. After a second or two of that, he let out a sigh, slinging the cloth over his shoulder.

"And I've known Gandalf for nearly thirty years," he said. "So consider the source."

Glancing at her watch— it was already a quarter to seven, _bugger_— Bilba tamped down the wild fluttering in her stomach and called up the most pleading, wide-eyed expression she had at her disposal.

"Please Dori, if anyone could understand, I thought it would be _you._" When Dori continued to look entirely unimpressed, Bilba untwisted her fingers from the soft green cotton folds of her skirt, where they had been plucking at the subtle floral pattern in frustration.

"It's not lying," she said, tapping the spotless countertop, where one of the new business cards Gandalf had given her rested. "I am actually an Assistant Director, whatever in the world that means. I don't think it's unreasonable to lead with that, and ease into the notion that I also model. I assume you tell people you own a cafe, don't you? Well, you _also_ sweep the floors and clean the tables."

Technically, Dori had a pair of rather sweet natured students who worked for him part-time, meant to be tending to customers and keeping everything clean while Dori handled greeting the customers, and preparing the food and beverages to his exacting standards. _Technically_, that was true, but Bilba had seen the man creeping up to buff invisible streaks from a table barely an instant after Arwen had finished wiping it down. And that was nothing compared to the glaring matches between Dori and Legolas regarding the schedule for descaling the machines.

"You do think you're a clever lass." Turning, Dori began straightening a various colourful boxes of tea on the neatly organized shelves behind the counter. There were a few customers scattered throughout the cafe, sipping beverages as they chatted in the lushly upholstered booths and tasteful round tables, but everyone appeared content for the moment; only she and Dori were lingering near the front counter.

"But tell me," Dori said, precisely lining up deep blue boxes of custom blended chamomile. "Which seems like the more attractive option: that this man is really so _unobservant_ that he's never noticed the twenty-foot posters of your derriere gracing the sides of buses, or that he's _uninterested_ in the sight of you in naught but beautiful underthings?"

"For the love of— for me, for _one evening_, can you _please_ just—"

The small silver bell above the door chimed, and Dori spun neatly on his heel, smoothing down the front of his black half-apron. The subtly false, welcoming smile he managed for most customers shifted almost immediately into a truer, much less pinched expression.

Glancing at the door, Bilba expected to see Ori shuffling in for a caffeine fix, with a slouchy beanie pulled over his shaggy hair (lest Dori insist, without room for argument, that his brother was due for a trim), or perhaps even Gandalf popping by for a plate of blackcurrant macarons and some flirting (which would invariably end with the cafe closing at nine o'clock precisely, and both Gandalf and Dori wearing identical blissful smirks tomorrow). Either option was enough to send an unenthusiastic shiver down her spine— this was a first date, and she wasn't ready to share Thorin quite yet. Having Dori meet him was daunting enough.

What she expected, and what she actually saw, were very different things.

"Ah, Thorin," Dori said, and Bilba blinked owlishly, more than a little stunned. She most definitely had not told Dori her date's name, had barely described him; how was this even bloody _possible_? "Hello; how are you this evening?"

"I'm good, thanks." No matter how much she blinked, the man stepping inside the shop didn't vanish in a puff of smoke, or resolve into some other bloke Dori would recognize. He stayed stubbornly, perfectly _Thorin_, from the polished toes of his boots, to the few faint streaks of grey in his thick, dark hair.

Then, of course, he turned those clear blue eyes in her direction, and Bilba felt the corners of her mouth lift almost entirely without her permission.

"Hello," Thorin said, moving to stand just a smidgen less than an arm's length away. There was a lower, warmer pitch weaving through the greeting, and the sound of it made Bilba think of crackling fireplaces and big, purring cats. His attention flickered down the length of her— over her loosely fitted jumper, the scalloped hem of her skirt hanging just to her knees, her tights— but only for a polite instant before returning to her face and staying there. "You look lovely."

"So do you," she meant to say, maybe a bit awkwardly, but by god it was the truth; well-fitted, dark wash jeans and a v-necked pullover in charcoal grey made for an excellent, attractively casual outfit, but it was the jacket that stole the show. The black leather bomber jacket that looked perfectly broken-in and soft as it hugged across his shoulders and his arms.

Well, as it turned out, Mister Sexy Posh Coat wasn't a one trick pony.

She _meant _to return the compliment, which had sounded so sincere it curled her toes in her loafers, but Dori cut in before she could force the words to scrape past her dry tongue.

"This? _Him_?" Dori was pointing, actually _pointing _at Thorin, while his silvery grey eyebrows made a concerted effort to meet his pristinely combed hairline. "This is your date? _Thorin Durinson_?"'

Bilba couldn't claim she'd actually heard the surname before, but when Thorin didn't immediately voice any objection, she nodded carefully. "Er... yes? Why... you two, I mean... _what_?"

"He's my cousin," Dori explained, sounding unfairly annoyed by the (admittedly babbling) question, and Bilba pressed a hand against her own cheek, processing that information. A cousin, Dori's cousin (and, presumably, Nori and Ori's as well) in a city of _eight million bloody people_, for goodness sake.

Coming around the counter, Dori was suddenly, and rather worryingly, all sunshine and roses, where a moment before he had been his usual, somewhat brackish self.

"This is grand," Dori was saying, as he ushered them farther in to the cafe, insistently. "What are the odds, I mean, _honestly_." Knowing it was pointless to resist, Bilba allowed herself to be shepherded, and Thorin followed along beside her. She felt the lightest touch of fingertips just above the small of her back, and when she glanced up, Thorin was watching her questioningly; she smiled, and the fingers resolved themselves into a broad hand, resting comfortably against her spine.

"And here we are." Sweeping an arm outward, Dori motioned them towards a table that was far enough back for some illusion of privacy in the small cafe. Bilba noted, however, that it had a perfect line of sight from the front counter. "Is there anything I can get you both, or would you rather take some time?"

Thorin actually pulled out her chair for her before settling into his own seat, in a low-key, natural gesture that didn't seem even slightly flashy or put on, while Dori whipped a pair of thin, leather-bound menus from an apron pocket and placed them on the tabletop. Both men were looking at her expectantly, and Bilba found herself needing a moment. Or perhaps a series of moments.

"I'm still deciding," she said, ignoring the slight narrowing of Dori's eyes. Yes, she knew the menu here upside-down and backwards, but _no_, she wasn't going to rush into her order.

Thorin agreed easily to the delay, and Dori huffed as though the pair of them had deeply disappointed him, leaving them with an ominous: "_I'll be back_."

"Your cousin," Bilba said, after Dori had vanished off towards the counter, doubtlessly to set up surveillance. Across the table, Thorin was adjusting the drape of his jacket over the back of his chair.

"Second cousin." Seemingly satisfied with how the gorgeous black leather hung, Thorin turned back to her with a tiny shrug. "Once removed. I hadn't seen him in years before I stopped in here for the first time, around a month ago. You two know each other?"

For an instant, every thought in Bilba's head froze. They certainly _did_ know each other— when Gandalf had first hired her, Dori had been recently retired, but he had never been far removed from those early photo shoots. It had been a toss-up, back then, whether he spent more time fussing over her (her posture, her presentation, her expression), or glowering behind Ori's shoulder. It was around that time that the youngest brother Rison had refused some generous scholarships from a few prestigious universities in favour of pursuing photography as _his calling, _much to the detriment of Dori's blood pressure— Nori still maintained that only Gandalf's offer of an ongoing contract with Gigi's had saved Ori's life after that debacle.

But she certainly didn't want to tell Thorin _that_.

"What am I saying," Thorin continued after a pause that felt a hundred years long to Bilba's racing mind, and his vaguely amused expression seemed entirely unaware of the maelstrom he'd just unleashed. "Of course you do. You did say this was your favourite cafe."

Oh god, yes, she had said that.

"It is," she chirped, her voice too high, then took a breath. "Dori does the most amazing blends of tea." Reaching out, she dragged a menu over to distract herself from staring; the warm-toned, muted light was very flattering, and Thorin had a sort of intensity that would have been all too easy to get caught up in.

"Bilba." A finger, thick and blunted but also quite long, curled around one edge of her menu. She forced herself to look up again, only to find a small furrow of concern wrinkling Thorin's forehead, and a frown gracing his lips. "You don't... is something wrong?"

"No!" The menu dropped to the tabletop, and her hand wrapped around his; his skin was very warm and rougher than her own, but any callused she felt were smooth. Instead of pulling away, Thorin closed his fingers gently, his thumb resting on her knuckles, and he stayed quiet as she fumbled for the rest of her answer.

"Nothing's wrong." There was a hint of heat tickling up her neck, and Bilba hoped the soft lighting managed to mask her no-doubt splotchy blush at least somewhat. "It's just... I haven't been on a date in ages, I feel entirely out of practice, and for god's sake don't tell him this, but Dori likes to think he's my father." She cut a very quick glance over towards the counter. "When he's more like an impossibly snoopy uncle peering at us from behind a jar of biscotti."

"We could go somewhere else," Thorin offered, carefully, and Bilba felt a foolish rush of relief even as she shook her head.

"No, no that would actually hurt his feelings, quite a lot. And I'd rather stay, regardless." Thorin didn't seem entirely convinced, the corners of his mouth still turned down; Bilba squeezed his fingers. "Honestly, I'd rather stay. Dori is a dear friend, even if he drives me mad on occasion, and he brews the most astonishing rooibos chai."

"All right." His expression slowly lightening again, Thorin sat back in his chair, though he kept his arm stretched out across the small table, and his hand resting loosely in her grip. "Since we're being so honest, I feel I should admit I've no idea what a _rooey bose chy_ actually is. I'm assuming some sort of beverage."

"Oh my lord," Bilba said, her voice heavy with mock disappointment. "You're a coffee man."

"I work ten and a half hour shifts," Thorin explained, picking up his own menu with his other hand. "On my shorter days. Of course I'm a coffee man."

"You're a firefighter." Granted, blurting that out wasn't the smoothest segue imaginable, but Bilba had already admitted to being a bit rusty at this dating thing. Surely that had to count for something.

Thorin chuckled, which wasn't a bad reaction at all. "I am, yes. And _you_, Ms Baggins, are a burglar."

It was an unexpected accusation, but Bilba caught on immediately— her unintentional thief of the first sexy coat— and was startled into a louder laugh than she'd meant to let loose.

"Hold on, now," she said around her laughter. "It was a loan, if you'll recall, and _you_ never specified the length of the lending period. And, _and_, on top of that, I've brought it with me tonight so you can have it back. Hardly a burgle, by any definition."

"Semantics, but fine. As you like." Dipping his head, Thorin kept a slight, crooked smile, even as Arwen appeared beside them, her dark hair wound in a thick fishtail braid over one shoulder, and an order pad and pencil ready in her hands.

"Hello," the young woman said, beaming sweetly at Bilba; if anyone were to guess which of the pair of them was the model, Bilba fully expected Arwen would be chosen ninety-nine out of a hundred times. Tall and well-proportioned, with flawless skin and fantastic bone structure, Arwen would have been a dream come true for most modelling agencies (and given that her family were old friends with the triumvirate of Istari Incorporated, she would have already had a foot in the door), but apparently she was quite content reading political science at uni, and floating around The Silver Platter in her skinny jeans, serving tea.

"What can I get you—" Arwen began to say, only to be interrupted by Dori swooping in like a hawk, not _quite_ bumping Arwen aside with his hip.

"I'll handle this table, Arwen, dear." Dori's shooing motions were not the sort of thing a wise person ignored, and Arwen beat a hasty retreat, shooting Bilba a final confused look before trotting off to question another patron about something or other.

"All right, then." Dori didn't bother with even the pretence of jotting anything down on a pad, and never had, as far as Bilba knew. Every order was invariably correct, regardless. "Have you decided?"

* * *

She had a chai with cinnamon bark, ginger, and hints of cocoa, while Thorin did indeed order a large black coffee (with _four_ sugars, which she proceeded to call _coffee cake in a cup_ when he gave her fragrant, milky chai the side-eye). It didn't take a great deal of coaxing to convince Thorin to try a taste of her tea, which he proceeded to describe as _not entirely bad_, maintaining a perfectly flat pokerface that sent her giggling into her hand_. _

Even with Dori lurking in the wings (apparently unsure which of them was most deserving of his heavy, monitory stares), it was a very comfortable hour or so of chatting, a fair amount of laughter and flirting, and their free hands lingering on the tabletop, brushing loosely together and apart in a strange, undiscussed intimacy.

It was nearly eight-thirty when Bilba shored up a burst of nerve and asked if Thorin would like to have supper with her, that night. He agreed immediately, and since The Silver Platter's menu encompassed lunch and brunch, they made their escape with only minimal tutting from Dori.

"We'll be discussing that foolish _plan_ of yours again, and at length," Dori had hissed in her ear, as she was pulling her red coat over her soft, caramel coloured jumper (her nicer brown coat was still at the dry cleaners, with a middling chance of survival; nearly a week zipped up in a plastic bag, overlooked and marinading in kerb water, had done it no favours at all). Dori's low tone reminded her of a thousand warnings on a hundred different shoots: _arch your spine, neck stretched, like __**this**__, so help me god_.

There was a rather nice pub within walking distance, and Thorin didn't object to Bilba taking hold of his hand again as they meandered through the chilly night air, both of them wearing their gloves. He'd retrieved his own fine grey pair from the paper shopping bag she'd carefully folded his wool coat into— _not_ a Gigi's bag, she'd made certain— but now that she knew how warm his palm actually was, it was simple to imagine even through the layers of leather and cashmere. In fact, the twinkle in his eye as he'd turned towards her, after she reached up and caught his swinging arm to lace her fingers between his own, had been luminous in the glow of shops and streetlamps.

Over supper, she heard about his sister Dis, and his nephews— Fili, who she had apparently already met during the lift incident, and younger brother Kili, who was currently suffering through sixth form.

("He's more than capable," Thorin had explained, his face pinching up in that half-proud, half-pained, entirely affectionate scowl Bilba remembered her own father wearing on occasion. "Smarter than he acts, smart enough for uni if he applied himself, but stubborn. I think the only reason Dis doesn't have my head mounted on her wall is the fact that he's still torn between applying to the brigade, and taking a gap year.")

Bilba had avoided saying much about her own family; her parents had been killed in a car wreck when she wasn't quite Kili's age, and most of her extended relations wouldn't give _Mad Bilba_ the time of day now that she'd left the West Midlands behind in favour of her _indecent_ profession in the wicked city. There wasn't really a good way to spin that for a first date.

Still, she spoke about the Risons— Nori was closer to Thorin's age than Dori, but had been rather wild and scarce even as a lad, while Ori was young enough to have avoided Thorin's notice as anything more than _another little cousin_. The Broadbeam family, Thorin did not know, which was a strange sort of relief; if she'd discovered that Bofur and Bombur were also his cousins, or Bifur was some distant uncle, the coincidences would have been far too thick on the ground.

It was late when they tumbled out of the pub, full of good food and still quite sober, laughter coming easily and hands clasped comfortably. Bilba didn't hesitate for a moment before giving her address to the cabbie that picked them up, unwilling to give her dark memories of Smeagol the power to make her nervous after such a gorgeous date.

Gladden Street, and then Carrock House, appeared a bit too quickly for Bilba's liking, but she bit back her disappointed sigh at the sight of home.

"Here we are," she said as they stopped, popping the door and stepping out onto the kerb. Behind her, she heard Thorin tell the driver to wait, and then the sound of the other door opening and closing.

"Very nice," Thorin said, waving a hand to indicate the beautiful old building as he came around the back of the cab. She murmured her thanks, and the pair of them ambled up the walkway, past the tall iron fence and the slightly wild hedgerow that separated Carrock House from the street. Thorin walked her all the way to the front door, then lingered upon the step when she made no immediate move to go inside.

"I had a lovely time tonight, Thorin." Again, Bilba felt heat crawling up her neck, but she couldn't be bothered worrying about it. "Thank you for supper."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Thorin looked as though he was about to say more, but stopped, his attention flickering up and behind Bilba. She turned to see, in time to catch Beorn bent low and glaring dangerously from the gap between his curtains.

"Shoo!" She said the word aloud, even if distance and a double layer of glass prevented Beorn from hearing her, flapping her hand sharply for extra emphasis. "Go _on_— for goodness sake! My landlord—" There was a blush well and truly on her cheeks now; the warmth was unmistakeable. "Takes building security very seriously."

"That's not a bad thing," Thorin said, and Bilba didn't look back to him until Beorn had retreated. When the curtain did finally swing closed, she turned, and suddenly her stomach was fluttering around its generous meal. Thorin was close, but not crowding her, and for all there was nearly a foot difference in their heights, it didn't feel as though he was looming.

"I'd like to see you again," she said, because it was either say _something_, or risk failing to stifle the urge to climb him like a very handsome tree. It was also something entirely true, and if Thorin's grin was any indication, the sentiment was probably returned. Feeling brave, she dared a bit more. "Soon, maybe?"

"I'd like that, very much." Some of the strange awkwardness her front step had bricked up between them sloughed away, and Thorin took her hand again, his broad thumb stroking over her knuckles through their gloves. "I'm off until Tuesday, and then again next weekend. I could ring you tomorrow?"

"Definitely, yes." But for the moment, there was a cab waiting at the kerb. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Thorin parroted once more, then leaned down very slowly, giving her plenty of time to step away from the impending hug if she wished.

Of course she bloody _didn't _wish, thank you. Instead, she slid into the strong bracket of his arms and looped her own around his ribs, not quite able to reach his shoulders without stretching and pulling them entirely, inexorability flush. His chest was solid as granite, his arms firm and thick under his sleeves, but he did not bring that obvious power to bear. The embrace was sturdy, but not squeezing, and she found herself in no great hurry to leave it.

"Goodnight, Bilba." His voice was quiet, his breath warm even against her burning cheek, and she wondered if he could feel her blush when his lips brushed the lightest kiss just there, before he pulled gently away.

This wasn't even remotely fair; she was a grown, worldly woman, and her knees actually felt _jellied_ by a damned peck on the cheek.

"Goodnight," she managed, her throat gone desert dry, and pressed his hand a bit tighter before letting him go entirely. Thorin paused an instant longer, seemingly studying her face as she found her keys in her bag, then ducked his head once and turned to start down the front step.

It was sheer luck that had Bilba glancing up towards the street, rather than unlocking the door immediately— there, rolling down Gladden Street, was the unmistakable red bulk of a bus.

And also there, in a matching red negligee and knickers, was a massive full-colour poster of Belle Bijou plastered down the side.

_Oh shitting buggering shit shit __**shit**_.

"Thorin!" He had only made it as far as the bottom step before her outburst brought him up short. And as her fickle luck would have it, that meant he was the perfect height for her panicked solution. Reaching out, Bilba grabbed hold of one of the flaps of his breast pockets, tugging him into a firm, clumsy kiss.

* * *

_AN: And finally we have achieved first date! Also, let it be known that Dori/Gandalf makes me deliriously happy. So there's that :D_


	11. Chapter 11

He didn't know what to do with his hands.

Thorin felt every thought fly out of his mind like startled birds, leaving behind the press of soft lips against his, and some faint, fresh floral scent that had been wafting over him all evening, every time Bilba had swept her hair back. She was holding him by the jacket, tethered— she had called him, and he'd turned. She had pulled him, and he'd followed.

And now she was kissing him, her palm flattening against his chest, and his own hands were flexing at his sides, curling in an imagined grip he hadn't managed to reach for.

It was over before it really began, as Bilba drew away almost as quickly as she'd taken hold of him; it had only been few awkwardly stretched moments of pressure, of her mouth slanted over his and his nose jabbing her in the cheek. Thorin hadn't even closed his eyes, and so he was easily able to watch the progression of mortification sweeping over her face, furrowing her forehead and pursing her lips to a thin, bloodless line.

His stomach dropped to his feet, heavy as lead. She looked _appalled_.

"I— I'm sorry," she stammered, quietly panicked, and his own idiocy hit him with all the force of a hammer, right between the eyes.

He would have been appalled with himself, too, if he'd kissed her and she'd gone as dead and cold as a slab of granite.

He still didn't know exactly what to do with his hands, but he at least had a few ideas now (a hundred thousand things he _wanted_ to do, certainly); he settled for reaching out to rest his fingertips against the warmth of her jaw, and loosely catching her wrist with his other hand. Having her standing a few steps above him made leaning in a straightforward gesture, even if it felt anything but simple; his heart was pounding against his ribs.

Her mouth wasn't nearly as soft this time, frozen taut at first, but Thorin thanked his lucky stars that Bilba was apparently better able to process surprises than he was. It was barely the space of a few worried heartbeats before the tension of her lips relaxed, parting gently against his; their heads tilted, slotting together much more comfortably, and Thorin slid his hand down her arm and around her palm, lacing their fingers as they had been tangled before.

It was gentle, slow, and Thorin felt heat pouring down his spine like water, filling him up and making him smile helplessly as Bilba bussed the corner of his mouth, then the centre of his top lip, letting their kisses blend together unhurriedly. Her hand was on his chest again, stealing up over the collar of his jacket, and the knit of her glove tickled against the skin of his throat, startling a deep, low sound out of him.

Breaking apart was a gradual process of lengthening pauses between kisses, until eventually Thorin rested his forehead lightly against Bilba's, eyes closed, lingering in the warmth of their mingling breaths.

"Nothing to be sorry for," he murmured, hoarse, and felt the puff of her laughter ghosting against his chin.

"I think," she said, retreating a bit farther, just enough to brush a light kiss against his cheek, like a fond sort of punctuation. "I have to agree, on reflection."

The sconces illuminating the building's front step seemed too bright when Thorin finally opened his eyes; he felt mildly drunk, not from the two lagers he'd had at the pub, but from the sweet bite of peppermint on Bilba's lips, and the pleasant weight of her gaze on him. Bilba was smiling, flushed rosy pink from more than the chill of the night, and it took a sudden surge of self-control not to dip back in for another taste.

"Your nose is cold," he said, ducking close enough to brush his own nose against the smaller, rounded line of hers, just for an instant, before straightening up again.

She squeezed his fingers, her smile quirking at the corners, amused. "And your cab is waiting."

"It is, yeah." Stepping back with some effort, Thorin immediately missed the feel of her small hand against his neck; for god's sake, he needed to play this cool. Desperate pawing rarely made a good impression on a first date. "Goodnight, again."

"Goodnight, Thorin," she said, her voice hitching when he bent low enough to press a kiss against her knuckles; that breathy little hiccup jolted through him like lightning, and he swallowed thickly as they untangled from each other entirely. Bilba fished her keys out of her purse, and Thorin took another slow, backward step away from the building as she turned to unlock the door.

She paused halfway through the door, glancing back over her shoulder. Her hair was a bit rumpled from his foray into carding it away from her face, her curls falling loose and glinting with a halo of deep gold from the backlighting coming from inside.

"Goodnight," she said again, a whisper on the curling end of her smile, and then she was gone into the building, pulling the door firmly shut behind herself. Thorin heard the lock snap automatically, oddly pleased by the security, and took a long, bracing lungful of cold air before stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and trotting off towards the idling cab.

* * *

After fire had gutted his family home, there had been a substantial estate to manage; it still bothered Thorin, seven years on, that he had allowed so many of the details to slip away from him, unattended. Grief and rage blinded him, and nearly a decade being shipped from one hot zone to another, from base to base, hadn't prepared him for the crumbling of his oldest foundations. He'd hardly been a stranger to loss and death, to destruction on a much grander scale than the burnt out husk of one manor house, but seeing the tracks of soot licking up from Erebor's broken windows, blackening the grey stone walls, had taken him out at the knees.

Yes, there had been insurance, inheritance, funerals, and a hundred other small clamouring things, and for the first time in a very long time, Thorin had felt as though the ground had opened up beneath him, threatening to swallow him down into the same darkness that had overtaken the halls of Erebor Castle. If it hadn't been for Dis, for her determination and ruthless attention to all those details lost amid Thorin's haze, he shuddered to think of the state they would have found themselves in.

As happened, however, they had managed to piece some manner of decent life back together between the pair of them, largely for the sake of the lads.

A portion (too sizable a portion, according to Dis) of their assets had been routed into private investigations over the years, after the police inquest into the fire had come up with nothing more suspicious than accounts of an old patriarch with a fondness for drink and a growing fuzziness of faculties. The authorities told them (gently at first, then much more firmly as Thorin's scepticism hadn't waned) that the fire had been a tragic accident— there were any number of manor staff, family friends, and others willing to attest to Thror Durinson's gradual decline, from a vibrant businessman and peer to a jaundice-eyed codger with too much of a penchant for brandy and cigarettes, both taken liberally and late into the night.

It was not, according to police and fire investigators, a wild notion to imagine that Baron Durinson had nodded off after a snifter or two, with a smouldering Sobraine in hand. _Accidents happened_.

Thorin hadn't accepted that answer at the time, and seven years of experience in the Brigade had only managed to convince him that his instincts were right, even if he had no solid proof. Yet, at least.

Beyond his personal drive for answers, however, Thorin had made certain (and Dis had made doubly certain) that the lads would always be financially comfortable. A centuries-old family business in textiles had fallen apart decades ago, as so much manufacturing moved east, but the Durinson fortune was relatively vast; canny investments meant all of the money hadn't dwindled along with the business.

Erebor Castle still sat, lonely and proud, on its sprawling estate grounds; the charred contents had been mucked out, the stink of smoke cleared, and the shattered windows boarded up, but there wasn't any amount of cleaning that could banish the ghosts from its halls. Dis refused point-blank to move back to the cavernous estate, while Thorin felt haunted by every question still unanswered, and every niggling doubt in the back of his mind. How could he live in the rooms his grandfather, his father and mother, his _little brother_ had died in, before he'd gotten justice for them?

It was his paycheque that kept him in his own flat, but family money that had bought Dis and the lads a three-storey, redbrick house in Wimbledon; the latter was where Thorin found himself on Monday morning, parking his bike in the garage and tucking his helmet under one arm.

Giving the front door a cursory knock, Thorin slipped inside without waiting for an answer, and was more than a bit surprised when he wasn't greeted by an exuberant dog. Toeing off his boots and dropping his jacket and helmet, he allowed the muffled burble of what sounded like the television to lead him farther in, all the way to the lounge. What he found inside the dimly lit room made him pause, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest.

"What's all this," he asked, taking in the loose sprawl of pyjamas and lanky boyish limbs across the overstuffed sofa. Fili and Kili were both draped over the cushions, their heads at opposite ends and their legs tangled together under rumpled blankets; there was a small mountain of balled-up tissues piled on Kili's chest, and Fili's nose and top lip were cherry red and chapped.

Two pairs of glassy, bloodshot eyes swivelled in his direction, gleaming in the flickering light from the telly, and the lads cried out a brief chorus of pitiful groans. Curled up on the floor with her back pressed against the sofa, Minty let her tail thud solidly on the carpet, but didn't bother getting up, content with the fingers Kili was dragging idly through her ruff.

"Kee brought home plague," Fili rasped, while his little brother succumbed to a bout of harsh, wet-sounding coughs. "Oh god, Thorin, save yourself."

"Not my fault," Kili managed to say, his voice just as painfully rough, and pressed his cheek against the arm of the sofa. His face was fever-flushed, but he looked a bit better than Fili's sweaty, greenish pallor. "Everybody's sick. Whole school."

"Fantastic." Ignoring the psychosomatic tickle already starting in his own throat, Thorin didn't move from the doorway. "Where's your mum? Is she sick, too?"

"Not sick." Fili waved a limp hand, vague and directionless, before slapping it over his forehead and pushing his fingers back through the damp spikes of his hair. "Making soup."

The noise Kili made was halfway between a purr and a gurgle, apparently pleased at the notion of soup (or possibly just drowning in his own head fluids).

Beating a strategic retreat, Thorin absently wiped his palms against his jeans, already stubbornly opposed to the prospect of fighting off whatever bug had the lads laid out. He'd had his flu shot, damn it, but so had they. That did not bode well.

He found Dis standing at the butcher's block in her spacious, sunny kitchen, chopping a bunch of curly green leaves into narrow strips. Her face was rosy, spots of pink high on her usually fair cheeks, but there weren't any other signs of the dreaded lurgy. The kitchen was warm, which may have been enough to explain the flush; the homey scent of garlic, onions, and warm chicken broth was stronger here, compared to the faint whiffs creeping out through the rest of the house, muffled under the smell of lemon cleaner.

"There isn't any spinach in Grandmother's chicken soup," Thorin said by way of greeting, and didn't flinch under the weight of his sister's unimpressed gaze, opting to investigate the simmering pot on the cooktop instead.

"It's kale, you barbarian." The bundle of greens was quickly being reduced to a pile of short ribbons, Dis' knife not pausing its smooth slicing. "Give that a stir, would you?"

Gliding a wooden spoon through the cloudy yellowish broth, Thorin scraped the bottom of the pot to make certain nothing was sticking; shredded chicken, diced carrots and celery, and a few translucent pieces of onion rolled to the top, sinking and reappearing. The soup smelled delicious, and achingly familiar.

"You missed tomato lentil soup yesterday," Dis said, bringing a heaping handful of kale over and reaching around Thorin's elbow to drop it in the pot. A measure of dried rotini, dark and likely whole wheat, followed directly after the greens, and Thorin kept slowly stirring the lot, separating the pasta before it could clump together. "And you also missed my little plague rats sicking up every fifteen minutes, like bloody clockwork. Lucky you."

"Was that before or after they had the soup?" Ducking away from the dishcloth Dis swatted in his direction, Thorin abandoned the pot to simmer on its own. He and Bilba had enjoyed a proper supper date yesterday, which had been an exceptionally appealing way to spend his Sunday, even before he knew about the lads' rather messy misfortune.

"Arse," Dis hissed, but she didn't bother hiding the smile twitching around her mouth and the corners of her eyes, which were the exact cool grey-blue shade as his own. Frerin's had been the same, though their brother's hair had favoured their mother's side of the family, deep gingery blonde. Both Thorin and Dis were dark headed, like their father, and sported bold Durinson noses; Dis and Frerin had actually been twins by virtue of sharing the womb, but it was Thorin and Dis who had always looked the part.

"I have to go to work," Dis continued, pulling a pair of bowls and a small plate out of the cupboard and setting them up on a wooden breakfast tray waiting on the worktop. The announcement wasn't surprising; Thorin could have gathered as much from the grey pinstriped trousers and crisp cream-coloured blouse protected under his sister's apron, rather than jeans and a henley. "Just for a few hours. Can you keep an eye on the boys for a bit?"

A few crackers and a lush stem of green grapes filled the plate, and Dis gave the soup a stir with one hand while putting a pair of soup spoons onto the tray with the other. She was, as always, a whirlwind of calm efficiency, more than capable of giving any of the most disciplined soldiers Thorin had ever served with a run for their money.

"Yes, all right." He might have argued that at nineteen and nearly seventeen years old, the lads hardly needed a nanny even if they were ill, but he had planned to move a bookcase for Dis that afternoon anyway. The only real difference would be the distinct lack of Fili helping him.

"Thank you." Stripping off her apron, Dis took a quick inventory, glancing around the room and patting down her neat clothing. "The soup should be done in about ten minutes," she said, adjusting the base of the long, thick braid that hung down the middle of her back, checking for loose hair. Without permission, Thorin found his thoughts wandering to lighter curls, amber brown and honey, smelling faintly of fresh flowers and soft as silk against his hands. He had kissed Bilba again after their supper date, in the dimness of a cab, deeper and sweeter than that first time.

"What's that look?" Shaking his head sharply, banishing all those very satisfying memories from the fore of his mind, Thorin found Dis staring at him with a curious, birdlike tilt to her head. Damn it.

Playing ignorant was his only defense, and he knew already it was a poor one. "Hm?"

True to form, Dis raised both eyebrows, decidedly unconvinced by his noise of innocent query. "Don't hum at me. You have a _look_." Flicking her arm, she checked her watch. "And I have no time to pry the reason out of you just now, but don't think I'm forgetting. For god's sake, you're impossible."

"Your definition of_ impossible_ is a bit loose." Telling her to respect his privacy would be worse than waving a red flag for a bull, so Thorin swallowed back every version of _mind your own business_ that attempted to bubble up out of his throat. He also began to mentally compose a few different texts he might send Dwalin, considering how much threat and how much pleading he needed to wind around the words in order to convince the man to keep his trap shut when Dis eventually rang him. And she would ring Dwalin, Thorin had little doubt, and Balin too.

"You're _blushing_, Thorin." He most certainly was _not_. "Feed my children; keep them hydrated. I should be back by six."

* * *

_AN: My deepest apologies for the unplanned hiatus, folks. With any luck at all, we should be back on a timelier track now. If you've stuck around this long, thank you so much for your patience._

_For the purposes of this story, I've had to play with ages a bit (dwarven aging doesn't really jive well with human lifespans). So, I've made Frerin and Dis twins, born less than a year after Thorin._


	12. Chapter 12

The kitchen was quiet after Dis swanned out, except for the low burbling simmer of the soup. Thorin felt a wee bit lightheaded, not even _slightly_ ready to entertain the notion of discussing Bilba with his sister; he gave the pot a perfunctory stir, keeping an eye on the time, and after a brief moment of indecision, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He had already listened to Dis saying her goodbyes to the lads, and the thud of the front door closing. It was probably safe enough.

Punching in his passcode, Thorin fished a noodle out with the wooden spoon, blowing the steam away absently as he pulled up the messaging app. His last message from Bilba had come through at eight twenty-two that morning, finishing off a brief back-and-forth they'd had while enjoying their respective breakfasts, in their respective flats.

**Hope you have a good day**, he'd sent as their conversation wound down, knowing Bilba was only a few minutes from rushing out her door and off to catch the Tube. He had wondered, vaguely and largely neutral, if work for her that morning meant sitting behind a desk in some office, or stripping down to hardly anything at all and posing for flashing cameras, but Bilba didn't volunteer any details, and he didn't ask. He didn't take issue with either scenario; what he knew about her job didn't bother him. He would hardly have asked her out in the first place if it did.

**You too**, she'd responded, and then less than a minute after that, added: **the AM already started quite nicely xx**

He'd grinned into his coffee like an idiot after that, considering and discarding a dozen different ridiculous answers before popping the last crust of toast into his mouth and settling for a succinct **yes it did**. It took another long drag of coffee before he managed to sign the text off with the same pair of kisses Bilba had used— it didn't feel as awkward as he thought it would.

Now, standing in his sister's kitchen, Thorin put a spoonful of hot soup into his mouth (another two minutes or so for the pasta to finish; the stock was decent, if a bit bland, which might be for the best considering the lads' sour stomachs), and considered his phone. If he wanted to get out ahead of Dis' snooping, he knew he should text Dwalin sooner rather than later.

There was a blaring honk from the other room— one of the lads blowing his nose with enough force to make Thorin's sinuses ache in commiseration. Forcing himself to stop over-thinking things, Thorin set the spoon aside and tapped out a quick message, not to Dwalin.

**Apparently I look suspiciously happy today**. It wasn't precisely what Dis had said, but it was close enough.

The soup was done, ladled neatly into bowls, by the time Thorin's phone beeped on the worktop, and he left the tray where it sat for a moment. He had hoped, but not expected, a response so quickly; she was at work, after all.

**Good**, Bilba had answered. **I'd hate to be the only one of us with this silly smile stuck on my face**.

That was a much nicer image than what waited for him in the lounge, but Thorin had suffered through worse assignments than a pair of mucus-drenched teenagers. Reading the message one more time, Thorin slid his phone back into his pocket and hoisted the tray.

* * *

After the monstrously unwieldy oak bookcase was moved from the second floor to the third, and the boxes of books moved up after it (he left it to Dis to unpack and reorganize them), Thorin headed back down to the kitchen for water, and found enough recognizable ingredients in the fridge to assemble a respectable sandwich as well.

He was halfway through his lunch, flipping through Sunday's Guardian, when Fili shuffled out through the dining room and into the kitchen, wrapped in an afghan and scuffing his socks against the hardwood. The lad looked _slightly_ less like a corpse now that he'd had soup and possibly a nap, if the bleariness in his eyes and red creases on his face were anything to go by.

"Sorry I didn't help." Keeping himself curled up like a cocoon, Fili still managed to fumble a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, setting it on the butcher's block with careful movements. He still sounded as though he'd been gargling gravel. "With the bookcase."

Thorin waved off the apology, going back to his newspaper as Fili fetched a hefty mug down from the cupboard, then dragged himself and his hard-won supplies over to the dining table. Settling heavily in a chair, keeping politely distant from Thorin, Fili leaned on one elbow and poured himself a large measure of juice.

"Should be fine," Fili continued, producing a pair of dark green gel capsules from somewhere in the folds of his blanket. "Tomorrow. For work. No worries."

The expression he made when swallowing the pills was incredibly pained, but after a few long gulps of juice, Fili forced what Thorin assumed was meant to be a reassuring grin.

Thorin was less than reassured. "You're not spreading this through Blue Watch; you're taking the day off. No arguments."

"I'll be fine," Fili insisted, low and stubborn, but wilted under Thorin's steady stare.

"Going to bring Kee some pills," he said eventually, pouring more juice into the mug before hauling himself to his feet, wavering faintly.

Thorin was struck by a twinge of regretful nostalgia in his chest— he remembered that precise mix of disappointment, embarrassed relief, and a hint of shame stealing across Fili's face years before, when a particularly nasty bout of stomach flu had kept him home from playing in some crucial rugby match for his school team. Neither of his nephews enjoyed feeling anything less than dependable, which was usually an admirable trait. It would be for the best in the long run, however, if it was eventually tempered with a bit more good sense.

"There's more soup whenever you want it." Standing, Thorin came around the table and snatched up the juice carton, then ignored the stale stink of sweat and sickness long enough to clasp Fili on the upper arm, squeezing gently. "Go tell your brother I need to borrow some joggers and a t-shirt; I think I'll go for a run this afternoon."

Fili's laugh was hardly more than a rasp of breath, but his grin was back, more amused and much less strained this time. "Oh, well, thank you so much for not making me feel like _more_ of a lazy sod," he managed, sniffing wetly. "Really means a lot, Uncle."

* * *

Minty had been pleased to join him for a jog through the neighbourhood, her leash looped around his waist; an hour at a steady pace had all the kinks worked out of his joints from lugging that damned bookcase, and the fresh, cold air was a nice change from the stale smell of illness faintly lingering in the house. A pair of lined tracksuit bottoms from Kili, and a t-shirt and hoodie from Fili had kept him more than warm enough, even with the sun hidden behind a dark layer of clouds.

The thick white plumes of their breaths faded when they returned to the warmth of the house, and the dog loped towards the kitchen the moment Thorin unhooked her leash, her lolling tongue heralding a likely visit to her water dish. Yanking the hoodie over his head, Thorin peeked briefly into the lounge— wheezy snores greeted him, just a few seconds out of perfect sync with each other, along with the drone of the television— before climbing the stairs to grab a quick shower in the guest bath.

He came back downstairs ten minutes later, back in his jeans and feeling fresh and looser than he had most of the day. Following Minty's trail towards the kitchen, Thorin was intent on one of the yoghurt pots he'd seen in Dis' fridge, until an entirely unexpected chime of laughter brought him up short.

_Bilba?_

Scrambling into the lounge wasn't one of the more graceful moments of his life, but it was slightly less embarrassing with only the dog to witness it— Fili and Kili were still dead to the world, faces lax in sick, medicated sleep.

Of course Bilba wasn't in his sister's house; Thorin knew the notion was absurd, but he had _heard_ her.

The television was still chattering, the picture vivid and warm-toned; some kind of interview, it looked like, with an older, white-haired man Thorin vaguely recognized.

_Gandalf Legris_, was scrawled across the bottom of the screen in neat white font, clearly legible against the backdrop of the man's grey, subtly patterned suit jacket. Below that name, smaller, it read: _Managing Director – Garnished & Gilded, Istari Inc_.

_That_ was where Thorin had seen the man before: in the Istari Building, the night Bilba had been stuck in the lift.

And there on the television, some distance behind Gandalf Legris' shoulder but still clearly within frame, sat Bilba, perched on a tall stool in front of a large mirror. She was smiling, wrapped in a pale pink silk robe, with her hair being piled in curlers by a large ginger bloke at her back, while another man with a dark moustache slicked vividly red varnish over her fingernails. The sight she made was more than gorgeous enough to make his breath catch in his throat.

Legris was speaking, but his voice was little more than a meaningless buzz at the edge of Thorin's attention. Just over half of Bilba's hair had already been wound up in the huge, multicoloured curlers, and the creamy slope of her neck was bare on one side, leading down to the collar of her robe. He knew how warm that skin was, and how softly Bilba would sigh if kissed just there, an inch or two below her ear.

He watched her laugh again, eyes twinkling, at something the moustached man said, and Thorin was so incredibly pleased that his nephews were asleep. Then Bilba's attention shifted, and she reached for the mobile phone sitting nearby, obviously being careful not to smudge her nails.

She had been beautiful before, candid and happy with her colleagues, but the softening of her expression as she studied her phone was something else entirely. Under the bright, warm lights of what Thorin assumed was some sort of modelling studio or set, the apples of Bilba's cheeks quickly flushed pink, and her teeth closed over her bottom lip. One of the men said something, and she ducked her head to one side, pressing the mobile against her chest to keep the screen hidden from curious eyes, looking equal parts delighted and endearingly shy.

She looked... smitten.

Thorin had no idea when this might have been filmed. It could have been months before, or weeks. The chances of it being _that_ morning, of it being his ridiculous little text that had put that fond look on her face, were miniscule, at best. All but impossible and perhaps a wee bit delusional, at worst. Still, he felt something clench in his gut when he noticed the large, boldly numbered wall clock just barely visible in the corner of the shot. The top quarter of the clock face was cut off, but he could see the base of the hands, pointing upward.

Ten past eleven, give or take a few minutes. If he was reading it correctly.

Feeling clumsy, Thorin patted himself down for his mobile, nearly dropping it in his haste to get it out of his pocket. On the television screen, the interview with Legris finished up, switching to a series of shorter scenes perhaps later in the day, with Bilba stripped down to bra and knickers of shimmering gold silk, patterned with delicate, lacy embroidery the same scarlet as her fingernails. There was a voiceover yammering on with the video, but Thorin didn't have a sliver of attention to spare for it, even if he cared to listen— he unlocked his phone on the forth attempt at getting the bloody passcode correct, while Bilba stretched and posed in front of a blank white backdrop.

He glanced down for an instant, just long enough to call up his text log with Bilba— the text he'd sent that morning, **apparently I look suspiciously happy today**_**,**_ had been sent at twelve minutes past eleven.

When he looked up again, Bilba was still posing, sultry and stunning, but no longer alone on the desolate white stage.

Now she was pressed against some bloke in a sleek, blood-red suit, with her spine arched and her fingers tangled in the back of his curling auburn hair.

* * *

It was a short walk from the nearest Tube station to Studio Ri, and Bilba took a few minutes to stop on the way, popping in to a coffee shop— she came out with five drinks balanced firmly on a tray, and a strong Earl Grey in her other hand. She knew the spring in her step was going to earn her no end of friendly teasing once she got to the studio, but she hoped the fact that her cheeriness resulted in a tea order might temper it.

What was the harm in a bit of well-meant bribery between friends, really?

Bifur was climbing out of a cab when Bilba made it to the studio, with a vibrant pink and orange nubbly scarf tucked incongruously into the collar of his shearling coat, and his hair springing up in a wild nimbus, rather than tamed back in a braid. He was frowning, looking all the fiercer for the scars on his head, until he saw her striding up the pavement and the darkness in his expression fell away like a dropped veil.

"Morning," he said, as the cab pulled away, and held out a hand towards the tray of drinks. "Can-can I?"

Bilba had her satchel slung across her chest, while Bifur was loaded down with two leather portfolios, and a sagging rucksack that Bilba expected contained an expansive sewing kit, a rainbow of fabric swatches, and possibly a prototype or two. Once a photo shoot was underway, there were usually any number of little tweaks Bifur made to the garments; when he wasn't actively sewing her into a bra, he was invariably sketching out something new.

"Oh no, I've got it." She smiled wide, and carefully linked her arm (the one holding only her own tea) through his when he offered his elbow. "But thank you, Bifur."

They headed towards the doors, and into the warm hominess of the studio; there were the stark white and green screens, the coils of cabling and harsh-looking lighting rigs, but it somehow managed to exude comfort and familiarity. The more casual spaces— like the makeup and hair stations where the brothers Broadbeam had certainly left their mark over the years, and the lounge area with its mismatched furniture, generous squashy pillows, and always a few piles of books— felt almost as cozy as Bilba's own flat, though her attempts to bring in a few plants had always ended in disaster. Ori was utterly hopeless at keeping even the heartiest cactus alive, which was actually a morbidly impressive ability.

Bifur was not effusively chatty on his best days, and judging by the tension in his posture and the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his jaw, Bilba did not imagine this was an especially good day. She hoped he wasn't suffering through the first bloom of a migraine, but if he was, of course he would be too stubborn to postpone a shoot.

"They had hibiscus white tea," she said, tilting her cheek to rest lightly against Bifur's arm for just a moment as they walked inside. The studio entrance was decorated with a few large, matted prints of Ori's photographs— richly hued, astonishingly dynamic portraits and crisp, black and white landscapes. "I thought you might like it, with a dash of honey."

Bifur hummed something approaching a gruff agreement, but then Bilba became aware of the unexpected chatter coming from farther in the studio.

There were people, so many people, and _cameras._

_Oh god._

Not just Ori's collection of gear, but _video cameras_, and not just Bofur and Nori bickering playfully while Bombur chuckled and lovingly brushed out hairpieces. There were a half-dozen strangers milling around the studio, and Gandalf standing in the middle of it all, looking so utterly tranquil and benign that Bilba knew instantly to set the blame squarely on his shoulders for this bedlam.

"What," Bilba said, sounding strangled, and the pull of Bifur's momentum was the the only reason she didn't skid to a halt.

"What," she said again, after Bifur had all but dragged her into the fray before disentangling himself and snatching his tea; Gandalf was suddenly within questioning distance, and Bilba was not about to miss the opportunity. "Gandalf, what in the world is going on?"

"Television spot," Gandalf answered cheerfully, then cocked his head at her. "More publicity before Fashion Week. I'm certain I mentioned it to you, my dear."

"I'm certain you _didn't_," she said between her teeth, and didn't even apologize for not offering him a tea before striding off towards the somewhat secluded nook that housed Ori's desk.

And that was where she found Ori hiding as well, hunched behind his massive computer monitor; he blinked up at her when she set down the cardboard carryout tray, just beside his keyboard.

"Tea," she said, feeling the sharp souring of her mood simmer down to something manageable. A bloody television spot, of all the damn things.

"Hm? Oh! Oh, ta." Taking the cup she offered him, Ori wrapped both hands around the warm paper, and began twisting his chair slowly, side to side. "This is... certainly something," he said, tilting his scruffy chin out towards the studio space. "When it rains it pours, I guess. I mean, when Mister Legris said last week that the telly people were coming—"

"_Last week_?" Ori's dark eyes went wide, and he stopped spinning, frozen. Taking a deep breath, Bilba lowered her voice. "He told you about this _last week_?"

"Yes?" The word sounded more like a question than an answer, and Ori's attention flickered uncomfortably away from her face, to the computer screen, then up again and over her shoulder. "He rang us when you were in New York, gave us the details and all— _you_ didn't know?"

Before Bilba could explain that _no_, she most certainly had _not_ known until she'd wandered in five minutes ago, Bofur appeared beside her, looking surprisingly thunderous.

"He brought his own makeup." Leaning against the cluttered desktop, both fists planted over piles of test prints and sketches, Bofur spoke in a low, dangerous sort of growl. It was all the more disturbing, considering how much effort it actually took to shake the man's pleasant demeanour. "That _prick_," Bofur continued, and Bilba wordlessly pulled a cup of milky, sweetened tea out of the tray and held it out as an offering. "That smarmy prick— ah, cheers, love— brought _his own makeup_, because mine couldn't _possibly_ be laced with endangered bee pollen, or powdered tigers' bones, or what ever the hell else he wants smeared all over his _practically perfect face_."

Taking a long swig of his tea, Bofur snarled at nothing in particular, then scrubbed one hand over his own face and turned a somewhat strained grin in Bilba's direction, shaking off his anger like a wet dog.

"So, darlin', how was the supper date? Brighten my day." Ori visibly perked up at the mention of a date, because nosiness was apparently a trait Bilba unconsciously sought out when choosing her friends.

"Good. It was very good." That was an understatement of tremendous proportions, but Bilba didn't feel entirely comfortable going into any more detail during this invasion of strange television people. Still, she felt strangely guilty underselling what had been perhaps the most comfortable, most enjoyable second date she'd had in years.

"It was _wonderful_," she amended, and resisted the urge to squirm in her shoes when Bofur's grin turned so very fond, and Ori sighed softly, propping his chin on one hand. She immediately changed the subject, and not without reason. "But hold on, who brought his own makeup?"

"Mister Legris didn't tell her," Ori piped up, popping the lid off his tea and blowing on it.

"He didn't?" It was more than slightly worrying when Bofur stepped near, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and bussing a quick kiss against the crown of her head. "Ah, love. Have a gander this way."

She turned when he gently urged her, and her eyes followed the line of his arm as he pointed across the busy studio. It only took a moment to catch sight of the tall, slender figure leaning over Bofur's usual makeup table, meticulously checking every angle of his face and the precise fall of his hair in the lighted mirror.

"Oh." Eurig Smaug— when Bilba had first met him, a little more than six years ago, he had been in the process of losing both his first name and any hint of a Welsh lilt, in favour of a mononym and a sonorous RP baritone. Smaug— _just_ Smaug, thank you— had been a fiery up and coming model when Bilba had already been comfortably ensconced in her permanent Gigi's contract. With intense, almond-shaped eyes of shifting bronze, thick auburn hair, a sharply angular face and a slender but densely muscled body, Smaug had quickly become a favourite in haute couture circles, as well as some more mainstream designers who wanted to freshen their images.

His look was aggressively _unique_; Bilba knew how fervidly Smaug detested being thought of as anything less than extraordinary.

They had started seeing each other barely a week after they'd met, and ended up dating for seven months. Long enough for Bilba to move into his sleek, ultramodern flat (he had asked her to live with him after only a month, though she'd held on to her own lease for three months after that); their schedules meant they were rarely home at the same time.

Seven months had also been plenty of time for Bilba to chafe under Smaug's artful, gradually overbearing attempts at _handling _her (her friends, her career, her life).

The eventual breakup had been extremely heated, then decidedly cold for quite some time after that— for as long as Bilba had known him, Smaug had _never_ been one to swallow failure with anything approaching grace. But now, with a few years perspective between them, their relationship had mended to something _different_ than strictly cool professionalism. It wasn't intimate or affectionate, nor even what she might term _friendly_, but it was something more than simple colleagues.

There were a great many reasons why Bilba had sworn off dating people from within her work life, and the crackle of weird tension that still snapped between her and Smaug was high on that list. Still, they worked extraordinarily well together from the camera's perspective; this would not be the first shoot they had done together, and Bilba doubted it would be the last either.

"Shit," she murmured. Ori's words came back to her in a rush, and she couldn't help repeating them, resigned. "When it rains it pours."

"Sometimes," Bofur agreed, giving her a squeeze. "But I wager you've got a wee bit of sunshine waiting for you, and mine's just over there—" He pointed to where Nori was directing a pack of scrambling camera crew to move their gear out of the way of his set. "I say we have some fun today, like we always do, and sod the rest. What do you think?"

Bilba thought back to her mood that morning, when Thorin's simple text before breakfast— **good morning Bilba**— had sent her stomach fluttering as though it was stuffed full of startled sparrows, flapping harder than butterflies ever could. She thought about the brilliance of his rare, open smile, and the sense of respect infused through his every gesture with her. The touch of his hands, large and warm, stroking over her knuckles and gently carding through her hair, and the heat of his mouth on her skin.

"I say that's an excellent plan," she said after a moment, feeling buoyant again; then Ori cleared his throat.

"I think you'll like the shoot today, Bilba," he said, setting his tea aside and riffling through his papers until he pulled out a set of sketches, spreading them out in a loose storyboard.

Turning back to the desk, Bilba studied the drawings with growing delight. The first set of poses were relatively normal fare, though they didn't lack Ori's particular flare for beautiful composition. The latter poses, though... they were something different.

Oh yes, this was going to be _fun_.

* * *

_AN: So yes, there's a humanized Smaug in this, and yes, he's meant to look more than a bit like good Mister Cumberbatch. You'll notice a few changes, however, like the eye and hair colour, that should harken more to Smaug the dragon than Benedict._

_Thank you folks for the reviews on that last chapter, thank you for reading, for making me feel really great after my authorial constitution had atrophied from disuse, and thank you for being brilliant, lovely people._


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: Very mild warning that Smaug is not always the nicest fellow- a bit tetchy, and a bit creepy. He's a dragon made human, with all the avarice and hot-temper that entails, but I'm trying to balance that without making him __**entirely**__ unlikable._

* * *

Bilba wasn't precisely _bashful_ of her body— she stripped down to skimpy knickers for a living, and there were days when it felt as though nearly everyone and their mum had seen her bum in a g-string. After this long, she assumed she had developed some immunity to that certain sort of shyness; she was, by virtue of practice if nothing else, more comfortable being nearly nude in front of strangers than she imagined many other women might be.

But that was her job, and her choice.

Tucked away behind one of the heavy changing curtains in Studio Ri, having just shimmied out of her jeans and jumper and unhooked her bra, Bilba was not expecting a large, cool hand to close over her elbow, attached to a looming presence suddenly at her back. That was something different altogether.

"Bilba." She managed not to shriek, though it was a close thing. Her heart was making every effort to climb into her mouth, and she clamped her hands over her chest, holding her unclasped bra in place.

An annoyed gust of air escaped from between her lips like steam from a broken pipe, and she turned as much as she was able; Smaug, as usual, seemed to fill whatever space he found himself in, subtly penning her in with his height, his long reach, and the power of his stare. It didn't help even slightly that while she was barely in her knickers he was still fully dressed, in a sharply pressed button down shirt the colour of merlot, open at the collar to expose a deep vee of smooth skin, and a pair of slim black jeans. When she jerked her elbow out of his grasp, he reached for her again, smoothing his palms gently over her shoulders, catching briefly on her loose bra straps.

"What are you doing in here?" She kept her voice low, not especially keen on having the television crew find them in such a compromising position. If the studio hadn't been brimming full of microphones and video cameras, Bilba liked to imagine she would have already been kicking up enough of a fuss to send Smaug scuttling.

Smaug's expression was uncommonly open and soft with concern, but that wasn't enough to make his unannounced visit any less inappropriate.

"I heard about last week," he said, keeping just as quiet as she was; his voice was like a great purring cat, a deeper register now than when they'd met. He smelled unfairly good— sandalwood, jasmine, and tobacco— still wearing Clive Christian No. 1, and no doubt still smoking like a chimney. "That lunatic in the lift; I thought they'd locked that beast up and thrown away the key. Did he hurt you?"

Her immediate instinct was to take issue with his phrasing, but she swallowed that back, knowing for absolute certain that Smaug wouldn't actually give a fig how insulting he sounded. He might apologise, possibly, but the insincerity of it would be another splinter under her skin.

"I'm fine," she said instead, not bothering to explain that Smeagol had been enjoying unmonitored day passes to leave hospital grounds for over a year. The man's treatments had been going very well, apparently; the lift incident had been a major, unpredicted step backward.

"I meant to ring you," Smaug continued, shifting ever so slightly closer into her space, and Bilba drew back an equal amount; the move earned her a frown, small and a little sad, dropping the corners of Smaug's lips. "But I knew you'd _say_ you were fine no matter what; I wanted to see you. Those enchanting blue eyes still don't hide very much at all, do they, darling?"

She glanced away from his face before she could think better of it, focusing on the drape of the curtains, then bristled when as self-satisfied sort of laugh rumbled from deep in Smaug's chest.

"I don't want to speak about this," she said, still staring stubbornly at a fixed point; she didn't see him take note of the yellowed ring of bruises Smeagol's fingers had squeezed into her skin, until one of his hands was already sliding down along her arm, curling around her wrist. Her attempt at maintaining her modesty by keeping her hands clamped over her chest meant his knuckles were brushing the minty green silk and white lace of her bra.

"What about this, Bilba?" The bruises didn't hurt anymore, almost faded to nothing at all, but the sensation of fingers closing around them like a bracelet, even loosely— _clammy white fingers wrapped around her wrist without warning, squeezing tight like an iron band— _made agitation well up through her entire body in a cold, tidal rush.

The curtains draping around her were soft beige cotton, not the claustrophobic walls of a lift, and the studio was so much brighter than the dim, yellowed glow of emergency lighting. She wasn't dragged back there by her own mind; she wasn't being swept away by panic. But she wasn't comfortable by any stretch of the imagination.

"Let go." Her voice was deceptively calm, utterly toneless compared to the sick churning in her belly. "Right this instant, Eurig, or I swear I'll scream."

Smaug, shockingly enough, complied without question— both the hand around her wrist, and the hand still wrapped around her elbow withdrew, though he didn't step out of her space even a millimetre.

"Hardly fine, I would say." He sighed— a long, troubled exhale that ghosted faint and hot over her hair— then _finally_ took a step backward. "You're trembling, you've gone pale, and it's just _us_ here, for goodness sake. Bilba, please, I hope you know you can talk to me, about anything."

She really _couldn't_, and they both knew it, but Bilba was too polite to point that out. Instead, she said nothing at all, standing perfectly poised and still as a statue, decidedly _not_ looking at Smaug. After a strained moment of silence, she listened as he sighed again, dramatically, and his gleaming leather shoes clicked against the hardwood floor in retreat.

Taking a deep breath, then another, Bilba waited another quiet minute or two before looking up; she was alone behind the curtains. Pressing one hand against her stomach, she willed it to settle down.

For a few nights after the lift incident, Bilba had woken up in the wee hours, feeling clammy and cold, with her heart hammering against her ribs. It was normal, she thought, to suffer a bout of nightmares after something so dreadful; the dreams were fuzzy, unremembered things shortly after she woke, all their details burning away in the light of morning like fog. Now, nearly a week later, her sleep was largely untroubled. And, despite her dates with Thorin, despite his physical closeness, his size and obvious strength, despite him _touching_ her, she hadn't once felt like that.

She considered, very briefly, whether or not she needed to cancel this photo shoot.

No. No, she was _fine_, no matter what Smaug thought he knew. If he had an ounce of civility rattling around in that clever brain of his, he might have realized how alarming and wildly inappropriate it was to corner her like that, no matter any other circumstances, but _especially_ after such an incident (even a woman he knew, had dated, had lived with). But unfortunately, there wasn't a single living soul who had a higher opinion of Smaug's charm than Smaug himself.

Shaking off the last tendrils of sour fear clinging to her, Bilba thought about the sketches Ori had shown her; it looked like it would be a good shoot. Bofur had suggested that they _have fun, like they always do_.

Her stomach calmed, sinking back slowly like a receding tide, and the skittering feelings eased. She was fine.

From the other side of the curtain, she heard a loud clatter, then Nori's voice hollering some very creative cursing at one of the television crew. If Bofur's answering laughter was anything to go by, the damage wasn't serious, and Bilba felt her expression twist up into a grin without really expecting it.

They were going to have fun, like they always did.

Finishing up stripping out of her own clothes, Bilba gathered up the first outfit Bifur had provided— a straightforward bra and knickers set, done in ivory silk, embellished with intricate curlicues of gold thread and tiny glass beads the colour of rubies. It was gorgeous, as were the other pieces she had seen waiting for her: all golds and deep jewel-toned reds, for the most part, as another boost for Gigi's pre-Valentine's campaign.

She had taken her mobile out of her coat before she'd hung it up, not willing to leave it unattended within reach of the strangers buzzing around the studio. Now the phone sat on a chair in the corner, beneath the folded mass of her clothes; after strapping herself into the cream knickers and wriggling everything into place, Bilba fished the phone out from under her cardigan. She didn't unlock it, but just kept it in hand as she slipped on her robe and finally trotted out to makeup and hair.

* * *

"I don't care how dead sexy Mister Posh Coat is; you're letting that dry a bit before you do anything else." Bofur pointed at her hand and the mobile pressed against her chest, as he secured the top back on the bottle of crimson nail varnish. "No sexting with wet nails."

Behind her shoulders, Bilba heard Bombur make a choked sound, partway between a surprised gasp and a tutting admonishment. She wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know what it had been like for the two of them, growing up with a brother so entirely opposite— for Bombur, especially, who was reserved, soft-spoken, and very nearly timid, while Bofur was bold, brash, and occasionally outrageous.

Bilba couldn't even pretend to understand sibling dynamics. If one of her cousins had ever teased her like Bofur teased Bombur, there would have been a war in the gently rolling fields of Hobbiton. But amazingly enough, the brothers got on very well indeed.

"Aw, look, Bom's gone all pink, too." Grinning wide and toothy, Bofur set the little bottle on the table. "Stop scandalizing my baby brother with your torrid affairs, you wild woman."

"I wish I could say you were raised by wolves," Bombur grumbled, combing out another section of Bilba's hair to wind it up in a roller. "I really do."

"Could we, please—" Bilba glanced over at Gandalf, who was still giving his interview, chatting carelessly to the television woman with the perfect teeth while an astonishingly intimidating video camera peered at them. "_Please_ at least try to keep my personal life a bit more personal while the telly people are here? Please?"

Bofur mimed turning a key and locking his mouth shut, but the cheeky smile lingering under his moustache didn't exactly inspire trust and confidence.

* * *

"You can't possibly be serious." Smaug, in Bilba's experience, was a force of nature when truly roused to a fury— during the worst of their domestic rows, when things had truly soured between them, she had actually fled their flat on more than one occasion rather than endure his raving. At the moment, he was nowhere close to furious, but he was annoyed enough to make Bilba (and almost everyone else in the room) immediately wary.

Wrapped in a short black robe, stripped out of the sleek suits he'd been wearing for the first half of the shoot, Smaug shot a heated glare in Bilba's direction— as if this was even _slightly_ her fault— before turning his attention back to Ori, who was keeping his camera held up against his chest like a shield. Or perhaps Ori was simply trying to keep the incredibly expensive equipment as safe and secure as possible, wrapped up in his arms like a baby; Smaug had something of a reputation for throwing things about when his temper ran hot (there were a few pieces of crockery Bilba had once owned that might have attested to how well-earned that reputation actually was, if they hadn't been smashed to bits and swept into the bin years ago).

The television crew was packing up, content with the shots they'd gotten that morning and eager to edit and prep a promo to air that afternoon, but they all conspicuously slowed their work as Smaug's ill temper grew more apparent.

Tossing his head aggressively, Smaug inhaled a long breath through his nose, looming over Ori. "This is _absurd_."

After their exchange in the dressing room that morning, followed by a few hours of draping herself over the elegant lines of his svelt carmine suit, Bilba found herself suddenly and _completely_ fed up to the back teeth with Eurig bloody Smaug.

Just because she preferred to avoid wearing heels in her private life, didn't mean she couldn't walk in them when the situation demanded; despite the ludicrous six-inch stilettos and two-inch platforms strapped to her feet, Bilba did not teeter as she crossed the set. Not quite wedging herself between the two men, she still managed to draw Smaug's attention from Ori, folding her arms across her chest and clearing her throat sharply.

Smaug turned toward her again, eyes sparking, and Bilba stood a bit straighter in her flawlessly tailored, perfectly crisp attire. Bifur had done the pencil skirt in a particularly flattering shade of ivory, while the gorgeous taffeta blouse, with its deep neckline and soft bow sitting at her hip, was the same rich blood red as her nails and the stain painted over her lips— it was not a timid outfit, and damn it, she would not be timid either.

"You didn't seem to find it absurd when _I_ was the one in my pants, and you were dressed for dinner at the Ritz," she said, and watched as faint, fine lines appeared at the corners of Smaug's narrowing eyes. A bit of sartorial equality was not a sign of the apocalypse, no matter what sort of tantrum he wanted to throw.

"The _clothes_—" Each word was bitten off by the guillotine of his teeth, his accent growing even less natural and much more clipped. "Are hardly the issue; don't be obtuse."

The fact that his words could still sting her even slightly, especially when she spoke fully _expecting_ to draw his ire, was deeply annoying.

"It's this nonsense," Smaug continued, sweeping a hand out to indicate the mobile pinboard Ori was always wheeling from place to place around the studio. It was shingled with layers of sketches, photo proofs, reference shots, and other miscellany Ori wanted on hand during a shoot; at the moment, the sketches he had shown Bilba earlier were tacked across the middle of the board, beginning with the poses from that morning.

It was, of course, the latter sketches that had Smaug's back up— those poses with the female model dressed to the nines and standing tall, while the male model was down to skimpy pants and on his knees, or draped over the female model like a living shawl. There were a number of solo poses for Smaug as well, as their had been for Bilba, but those weren't the problem, of course.

"Oh, really?" Taking another step forward, close enough to point directly at a sketch they'd recreated that morning, with Bilba perched over Smaug's lap, one of his long hands spanning the bare curve of her back. Nearby, Ori slunk back a few subtle steps. "But _this_—"

"Enough." Gandalf didn't raise his voice much at all, simply spoke loudly enough to be heard, his tone calm but firm. Bilba swallowed back her next words, feeling slightly lightheaded and still nettled.

"That's quite enough," Gandalf said again, and a quick glance up revealed his expression was gravely neutral, without a hint of his usual playfulness. "This is a discussion Mister Smaug and I will have in private."

It was a whirlwind after that, with Gandalf turing crisply on his heel and walking towards Ori's little corner of an office; Smaug only hesitated an instant before following, eating up the distance with long, angry strides. That left Bilba, plucking gingerly at the neat hem of her blouse, just as silent and still as the others in the room.

"What a tit," Nori muttered after the few awkward moments it took for the television crew to hesitantly restart their retreat. Swooping in close, Nori clapped one hand over Ori's shoulder, and though he was startled by the contact, Ori never looked in danger of unlacing his spindly finger from their steady grip around his camera. "You're a smarter man than me, little brother. I'd have cracked him one, and then Gandalf might have killed me for giving one of his models a crooked nose. God knows what that face is insured for."

"I'd be more worried about Mister Belov," Ori said, visibly relaxing, like a pillbug coming uncurled. "And his fleet of solicitors."

"See?" Nori grinned, reaching up to ruffle the back of Ori's hair. "Always the clever one. Oi, you lot—" Turning from his brother, Nori slipped back into the role of tetchy set director as easily as he might put on a favourite pair of slippers, flicking his arm out toward the lingering television crew, then pointing towards the exit. "You're done; clear out."

There was a surprising lack of shouting from Gandalf and Smaug's tête-à-tête, which could either be the herald of good news, or very bad. The television crew was gone in short order, leaving only a pile of discarded take-away cups clogging up the bin and a trio of large, half-empty cardboard pastry boxes as evidence of their visit.

By the time Smaug reappeared, Bilba had been eyeing a sinfully plump raspberry scone with undisguised longing for what felt like a century, while the remaining abandoned pastries had been summarily polished off by the five lucky sods not wearing lipstick.

"If we might move this along," Smaug snapped at the room at large, but without any real teeth this time; he had clearly been worn down to more snark than bite. He sloughed off his robe without complaint, baring miles of smooth, toned skin, and a pair of sleek claret briefs, stitched with a dark gold Gigi's logo on the waistband. The neat, thin line of auburn hair peeking up from the briefs, trailing up over firm muscles to the divot of Smaug's navel, perfectly complimented the deep red of the pants.

"Bilba, dear," he said, flawlessly polite, and extended a gracious hand toward her, palm up. "Shall we?"

* * *

_AN: I want to wish a very happy Canada Day to any of you folks who live with me up here in the Great White (or, currently Great Soggy) North. I know I'm a bit early, but there's only a slim chance I'll have another chapter out by July 1st._

_Even if this rain keeps up in my neck of the woods, I'll still be enjoying a few beers and a barbecue, and I hope you all have a great weekend too!_


	14. Chapter 14

One of the things that Dis had been adamant about when searching for the right house, after the fire, was the need for a spacious back garden. Somewhere green, safe, and large enough for the lads to play in; they'd been twelve and nine when Erebor had been gutted, which meant they'd had plenty of time to get used to the rolling fields and fresh air of the Yorkshire countryside.

It hadn't been cheap by any stretch of the imagination to find even a faint echo of a replica around London, but Thorin certainly hadn't felt any need to argue. He'd grown up exploring the same fields and woodlands of the Erebor grounds, and understood the appeal.

It was in Dis' well-kept wedge of greenery, with its great twisting walnut tree shivering grey and skeletal in the winter air, that Thorin found a bit of peace and quiet to get his thoughts back in order.

Sitting on the back step of the house, Thorin gave Minty a scratch behind the ears when she butted her head against his knees. They'd already been outside long enough for the dog to grow bored sniffing around the damp foliage— not an insignificant amount of time— but Thorin still had no idea what he should do.

His mobile was heavy in his hands, its screen dark. His tongue tasted sour, far in the back of his mouth, mostly caused by the knowledge that he was being incredibly, _inexcusably_ stupid.

"It's her job," he said, staring into Minty's gentle, liver-brown eyes. The dog, as expected, said nothing. "I know it's her job. And I don't... I _don't_ have a problem with it."

It didn't feel as though he was trying to convince himself, which was a good sign. It felt true, though perhaps a bit shaky around the edges.

"I don't have a problem with her job," he repeated, and took a deep, bracing breath. Minty rested her chin on top of his knees, and her muzzle was noticeably warm and damp through the cold denim.

He wasn't _thrilled_ with the sight of her pressed flush against some painfully posh looking man, but surely he could be forgiven a twinge of discomfort about it. Just a whisper of some ill-feeling— not jealousy, but a faint, tight tinging under his skin, more akin to irritation.

If this was going to be a problem, he needed to know it now, before he delved too deep. This needed to be a momentary lapse, a vexation he could shake off like a stifling shroud, or he needed to acknowledge his limitations and back off.

Modelling was her job, or part of her job. And modelling meant _this_.

He needed to decide whether or not he could handle this.

Then, when his phone rang, shrill and impossibly loud in the otherwise peaceful yard, Thorin was startled enough to drop it.

"Shit—" It hit the ground before he could catch it, the corner of the rubber case bouncing once off the flagstone between his socked feet. It settled face-down, any possible damage still unseen, but the fact that it _kept_ ringing was promising, at least.

"Hang on, hang _on_," he said to no one as he scrambled to pick it up, while Minty stepped back, whuffing softly (and if it sounded like she was laughing at him, Thorin was sensible enough to know it was all in his head). The screen was in one piece, thankfully not cracked or scratched that he noticed with a cursory glance; the caller-id displayed his default background, no photo, and simply read: _B – Mobile_.

It was the fourth ring, just about to switch to voicemail, and he slid his thumb across the _Answer_ button without a second thought, pressing the phone to his ear and trying very hard not to sound as off-kilter as he felt.

"Hello?" Immediately after that greeting, he tilted his mouth away, sucking in a steady breath; Bilba's voice was still warm and sweet in his ear, washing over him.

"Hello," she said, only a wee bit tinny through the speaker of his phone. "Thorin? It's Bilba. Is this... a bad time?"

_Shit_.

Beside him, Minty sat back on her haunches, tail thudding lazily as she nosed against his free hand. Oh, that was perfect.

"No! No, not at all." He smiled, giving the dog a grateful rub over the neck and up to her ears. If he sounded out of sorts, Minty was a much better excuse than: _I was having an utterly ridiculous and humiliating crisis of masculine pride, and then I dropped my phone like a wanker, and possibly panicked, just a tiny bit, when I saw it was you calling_. "I'm just at my sister's place, out in the yard with the dog."

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? It's nothing important, and you're with your family—"

"Bilba." Switching the phone to his other ear, Thorin wrapped an arm around Minty when she leaned heavily against his legs, and kept rubbing his fingers through the smooth, short hair of her chest. "Dis is gone to work, and the lads are sleeping on the sofa. They're laid out with some bug, and I'm keeping an eye on them for a bit. You're not interrupting anything."

"Your nephews are ill? Is there..." Bilba's voice trailed off, and he heard a distant shuffling through the line. He wondered what she might be doing, which very quickly shifted to wondering if she was still stripped down to just knickers, and he immediately slammed the brakes on that train of thought. She was speaking again after only a few seconds, quieter and earnestly concerned. "I mean, this isn't meant to sound silly, or odd, but if there's anything I can do, anything that might help... I'd be happy to."

Something tight and aching in Thorin's chest released, like a great straining knot coming unravelled, and made him acutely aware of its presence through its sudden absence. He hadn't really known it was there, until it was gone, and now he found himself swallowing back a strangled sort of laugh bubbling beneath his chin.

He had already delved too deep to let a flare of insecurity dictate his happiness.

He could handle this, and gladly. It was just a job.

"Thank you, Bilba," he said emphatically, meaning several different things, while grinning wide and foolish. "But we're all right. Just a nasty cold, I think. The lads are fed, watered, and loaded with Night Nurse, and Dis should be back—" He tucked his phone against his shoulder, lowering his arm for a moment to check his watch. "In two hours or so."

"It sounds like you've got things well in hand." He could hear an answering smile brightening Bilba's tone, as well as a thread of flirtatious warmth that wound tightly around him. "Though that's hardly surprising. You are rather capable, I've noticed."

"Have you? I'm flattered."

"And quite sweet, as well," she continued, chuckling in his ear as he grumbled half-hearted protest. "Hush you; I happen to have a weakness for sweets."

"And aren't I lucky," he murmured, low and honest.

"You are," she agreed, soft, as though they were sharing some secret between them. Perhaps they were. "Thorin, I wondered, would you... I know you have work tomorrow, as do I, and I won't be at all offended if you'd rather not, but if you wanted to drop by my place this evening, we could have supper? Just... just supper. No expectations, except some pleasant company over a meal, after a long day."

Thorin's immediate instinct was to accept, enthusiastically, and it only took a moment's hesitation to realize he had no reason to say no.

"I'd like that." After hours spent tending to snoring, gassy, congested boys (even if he loved the pair of them beyond reason), the prospect of an evening in Bilba's company felt like a glass of water being offered to a parched man. "That sounds, yes, that sounds wonderful."

* * *

"All right, so, sometime after seven, you said?" Tucked away amongst the racks of wardrobe, unashamedly hiding while Smaug's solo photos were being finished up, Bilba pressed her phone closer to her ear, listening to Thorin briefly outline their plans again as her fingers danced idly along a row of silky underthings. "You'll text. Yes, sounds good. All right. I'll see you soon."

She was still poured into the pencil skirt and blouse, prepared for a quick call-back if Ori deemed it necessary, but she had lost the deadly tall stilettos in favour of a pair of plain, peachy-pink ballet flats she kept in the studio for just such a situation. That meant when she turned, finding Smaug lurking behind her _again_, she had lost the few extra inches of height afforded to her in front of the camera; Smaug towered over her by more than a foot, affecting a grand presence even dressed down to pants (black boxer briefs now, embroidered with delicate red filigree over one hip; his robe was hanging open).

"_Damn_ it, Eurig—" She pressed her hand, and the phone held in it, against her thudding heart, and used his given name purely because she knew it nettled him. It had actually never suited the man as well as simply _Smaug_, but that hardly mattered at that moment. As she'd told Thorin, it had been a long day, and her patience felt ever so slightly frayed. "Does Ori want more shots?"

There was a lengthy, increasingly tense silence as Smaug simply stared at her, impenetrable as marble. It wasn't until Bilba opened her mouth to repeat the question, that Smaug finally deigned to answer.

"No," he said, and Bilba did not miss the quick flicker of his eyes from her face, to her phone, then back again. "He seems satisfied with what he has. I was going to ask if you had plans for this evening; I thought we might have dinner. After everything, I worry about you all alone in that flat— let me take you out, anywhere you like."

It was similar to a number of offers he had extended before, after their breakup, and she agreed on occasion; it had never gone further than dinner, drinks, and once (_years_ ago) a very ill-advised snog encouraged by too much Pinot and a secluded table at Le Gavroche.

"Thank you." She smiled, perhaps not as wide as she had while on the phone, and shook her head. "But I already have plans. Some other time?"

For an instant, there was a visible widening of his eyes, a lift of his brows; Smaug was _honestly_ surprised she had turned him down, or at least wanted to appear surprised. Surprised, and not entirely pleased, but then his expression smoothed in a blink, shifting to composed disappointment.

"Certainly, Bilba." When he extended his hand, palm up and long fingers just slightly curled, she couldn't think of an excuse to refuse something so simple without coming across as rude, even if she had a good idea of his intentions. Instead, she allowed him to take her hand in his, again, but this time he wasn't simply leading her onto the set. _This_ time, he wrapped his fingers around her palm, all but engulfing her smaller hand, and bent sharply at his waist, ducking low enough to press a dry, lingering kiss against her knuckles.

"The offer," he murmured, keeping his pose and looking _up_ at her for once, through the dark sweep of his eyelashes, subtly defined with clear mascara. "Still stands, should you change your mind."

He kissed her hand again, light as a butterfly, his fingertips straying up to stroke the inside of her wrist, and Bilba gently extracted herself from his grasp with as much poise as she could muster.

"Thank you," she said again, and moved to slip around him. She was intent on getting out of the studio if they'd truly been dismissed for the day, and heading down to the shops; she still had plenty of time to put something tasty and suitably impressive together for supper.

Smaug didn't reach for her as she moved past, much to her relief, but he did speak up again just as she made it to the ends of the racks, delaying her escape.

"Bilba, I couldn't help but overhear—" More _eavesdrop_, really, if one were to nitpick, and Bilba had no doubt that every second had been entirely deliberate. "The plans you mentioned— hardly my affair, of course, but it did sound rather... friendly."

Smaug let that vague insinuation hang between them, coloured with the faintest hint of curiosity; Bilba refrained from offering assurances that it was, indeed, none of his business. She could have said nothing at all, letting his words dangle like a lure: potentially dangerous if engaged, but worthless if ignored.

"A supper date," she said instead, and regretted offering even that much information when Smaug's gaze sharpened, searching her face.

When she turned away, unspeakably glad for the excuse of Nori's voice calling for her from across the studio, the weight of that stare seemed to drag over the back of her neck like a heavy caress, making her shiver despite her best intentions.

* * *

"Are you staying for supper?" Dis had apparently stopped at the shops on her way back from work, and was now unpacking a canvas grocery bag onto the kitchen island: chicken breasts, bean sprouts, broccoli, and a bun of dark, grainy bread. Leaning against the cooker, Thorin checked his watch again; it was already a quarter to six.

"Ginger chicken and rice," Dis continued, as she moved to get her apron off its peg and slip it over her head. "Good for the boys' stomachs, and a bit spicy for their sinuses. How long have they been sleeping?"

"Most of the afternoon, on and off." Knives and cutting boards were being laid out, and the fry pan wouldn't be far behind. Thorin stepped briskly out of the way as Dis glided around her kitchen, grabbing bits and pieces (an onion snatched from the basket, a colander put in the sink, a knob of ginger from the freezer, a pan on the hob) as she went. "And no, I'll not be staying."

"Had enough for the day, have we, big brother?" Dis was smirking as she peeled the chicken out of its package, laying a fillet out on the cutting board to be neatly cubed. "Put a dash of oil in that pan, would you? Grapeseed, in the cupboard, there."

He did as he was bid, mentally calculating whether or not he should bother stopping off at home before heading to Bilba's flat. If he wanted to change out of t-shirt and jeans, he needed to leave as soon as possible; otherwise, he could linger a bit longer.

He was, admittedly, a bit distracted, but Dis' hip knocking him out of the way quickly brought him back to the present.

"You're out of sorts," she said, dropping the chicken into the hot pan with a crackle. "Give that a quick stir while I wash my hands, please." The tap started with a gush, and Dis raised her voice to be heard over it. "And tell me what's the matter. It's something more than just a day fussing over the boys; you were the same this morning."

He couldn't blame work, not without Fili's corroboration. Vague truths were his only recourse.

"I met someone." The tap shut off abruptly, leaving the kitchen in a cloud of thick, pregnant silence, broken only by the sizzle of frying chicken. Hazarding a glance over, Thorin found Dis staring at him, exactly as he had feared she might be: pale blue eyes sparking bright with curiosity, and sporting a wide, gleeful smile. She looked all of seven years old again, despite threads of grey streaking faintly through her forelock.

"You _met_ someone." Shaking water and clinging soap from her hands, then grabbing a towel to finish the job, Dis closed on him like a grinning shark. "What sort of _someone_? When? Where?"

"I met a woman." Thorin sighed through his nose, setting aside the fish slice he'd been using to push the chicken around the pan. "Recently. So recently, in fact, that I'm not prepared to discuss this any further."

"Thorin—"

"No." His sister meant well, and he knew it, but there were _some_ limits. "Dis, leave it. It's new, and it's good, so please, leave it until I say, all right? I promise, if it gets serious, you'll know."

When Dis stepped closer, reaching up, Thorin let her press a cool, slightly damp hand against his cheek. Her manic smile had calmed, but not faded entirely, in the face of his refusal to share.

"You are a stubborn old sod," she said, and clicked her tongue. "But, it's good? This _someone_, she's good?"

"Yeah." Thorin didn't bother trying to stop his mouth from curling up, too busy tamping down a dozen different distracting thoughts. "She's... she's very good."

"Oh my _god_—" Ducking away as Dis tried to pinch his face, Thorin flinched when his chest was swatted with a towel. "Look at that face; you're _smitten_!"

_Am __**not**_, was the entirely childish response he barely managed to bite back, opting for the only slightly less mortifying: "I'm leaving, is what I'm doing. I have a... thing." _Shit_. "A date. I have a date."

It was too late to salvage his pride from that fumbling mess; Dis was already shaking with laughter, bracing herself against the cooker and pressing a hand over her mouth.

"A _thing_," she gasped, between fits of giggles that did not suit a woman of her bearing and age _at all_. "Holy hell, a _thing_. Go on then, go get ready for your _thing, _your_ date-thing_, you massive, adorable twit."

It was the perfect opportunity to flee, but Thorin hesitated, one hand curling around the edge of the worktop as he leaned his hips back against it.

"Do I—" He swallowed, rubbing at the back of his neck. His jeans weren't in bad shape, dark and only a bit worn at the knees, but his t-shirt was old, faded from its original navy to ashy blue, with _London Fire Brigade_ stitched in red over the left breast. Not a bad choice for moving a bookcase, at least. "I should change, yeah?"

"Should you— You should change, yes," Dis said, still giggling, and flapped her hand at him. "This? No. Do not wear one of your ratty old work shirts on a _thing. _God help me, you're worse than Kili._"_

"Your chicken is going to burn." Pushing away from the worktop, Thorin left Dis to hiss curses at the quickly browning pan. If he didn't hit terrible traffic, he could probably be home and then over to Bilba's by around seven-thirty.

"Have fun," Dis called after him, clearly still _far_ too amused for his comfort, but Thorin was silently grateful that she had at least refrained from hollering _date-thing_ loud enough for the lads to hear.

* * *

_AN: Happy Canada Day! You can thank a rainy, miserably muggy long weekend for this quick chapter. With Thorin being his usual suave self, because I missed him as much as you folks._


	15. Chapter 15

It was nearly six o'clock when Bilba finally staggered into Carrock House, awkwardly shifting her satchel and a grocery bag as she fumbled with her keys. Beorn wasn't out among the wild greenery he kept barely tamed out front; that absence would have marked a rare day in the warmer months, but now the gardens were sleeping for the winter.

One of the Carrock's cats— a sleek calico moggie, with a black splotch over her nose as though she'd peeked too deep into an ink pot— was lurking just inside the entryway, and proceeded to wind her way around Bilba's ankles in greeting. Carrock House was pet-friendly, to put it mildly; amongst her neighbours lived an army of cats, a few small dogs, and even a trio of rabbits on the third floor. If he could have managed it, Beorn himself would have collected a menagerie, but the realities of city-life needed to be considered. Still, he kept a pair of middling-sized terriers, an elderly tabby, and the beehives currently wrapped safely in the back garden.

Bilba was, as far as she knew, the only resident of Carrock House who didn't own a pet. She had nothing _against_ animals, except the havoc their dander tended to play on her sinuses; it was more a matter of her often erratic schedule. She could ask Beorn to water her plants on occasion, but she could not walk out on a cat for hours, days, or _weeks_ on end (or foist the poor beast off on someone else) without suffering guilt.

"I'm a bit pressed for time, puss," she said, gently pushing the friendly calico away with her foot. The cat gave one plaintive meow before resuming its position near the door, resigned to waiting for a more benevolent human to arrive.

Beorn's laugh was a muffled boom from somewhere down the ground floor corridor, and Bilba all but dashed towards the stairs. She didn't want to risk being caught up in a conversation; Beorn was much more persistent than the calico cat, and Bilba simply didn't have a half-hour (or more) to chat.

She didn't entirely relax until her flat door closed behind her, and she was leaning back against the kelly green wood.

After a brief moment to wallow in relief— she never liked putting that disappointed frown on Beorn's face— Bilba pushed herself away from the door, toeing off her loafers, stripping out of her coat, and dropping her satchel. The groceries were quickly tucked away in the fridge, and then she was unwinding her hair from its untidy bun and padding down towards the bath.

The eighteen layers of makeup had been chiseled off her face back at the studio (actually, Bofur used very nice disposable wipes that smelled of lavender), but her hair was still a nest of mousse, spray, and pomade, gumming up her curls into perfectly loose and flowing shapes. Pretty to look at, but oddly crunchy to touch, and not at all what she wanted during a date.

After a very speedy shower, Bilba checked her phone— eight minutes past six, and no texts waiting— then set about rushing through a truncated version of her normal routine. Teeth brushed, everything moisturized, tangles gently worked out of her hair before a blast from her diffused dryer, and just a touch of makeup: Bofur was her source for the loveliest products, smooth, light, and effective.

It was coming up on half six when Bilba was finally standing in her spare room, the one she'd converted entirely into a wardrobe almost immediately after moving into the flat. Wrapped in a towel, not bothering with a robe, she scanned the neatly organized racks and shelves, hunting for a bolt of inspiration. Tendrils of panic were tickling the back of her thoughts, reminding her of the supper not yet started, and the fact that this would be the first time Thorin saw the inside of her flat.

Inviting him to her home, after _two dates_. Two wonderful dates, granted, but this was far less cautious than she was used to.

"No expectations," she said softly, rubbing the sleeve of a teal charmeuse blouse between her fingers and thumb. "Just supper. Hop to it, Bilba, my girl."

She settled, after another few moments of fretting, on a pair of chocolate brown jeans and a sleeveless blouse— beige chiffon with a soft, loose ruffle running down either side of the buttons. It wasn't _too_ fancy for an evening in, but it wasn't joggers and a ratty vest, either (Bilba didn't actually own a ratty vest, but the point still stood).

Nabbing a loose, sage green cardigan and foregoing socks (her floor, much like the rest of the flat, was comfortably warm, radiators pinging), Bilba found herself in the kitchen by twenty to seven, popping her little iPod into its speakers to croon some background noise, and laying out the makings of supper across her worktop. She'd picked up fresh sausage and four lovely, thick-cut pork chops on the way home, along with a bag of Brussels sprouts; by the time her phone chimed, the sausage was already chopped and sizzling away in a pan, keeping fragrant company with minced onion, apple, and a sprinkle of fennel seeds.

Setting her peeler aside and wiping bits of carrot from her fingers, Bilba reached for her mobile, smiling as she read Thorin's text: **anything I could bring?**

**Just you**, she returned, feeling a bit less anxious with her kitchen warm and working around her. She'd never felt the urge to turn her love of cooking into a job, but the act of putting a delicious meal together (whether just for herself, or a few friends) was one of her favourite pastimes. Possibly only rivalled by _eating_ the meal, if she was being completely honest.

**If you're sure**, came the reply after only a few seconds, then: **I should be there in 20 minutes**.

**I'm sure**, she reassured him, **see you soon xx**

There was enough time to give the sausage mixture a stir before her phone chirped again. The text was simply a pair of answering kisses— **Xx**— without even the pretence of a little message attached.

"My god, you're cute," she muttered, turning back to her carrots with a silly grin. "You're _too_ cute, and it's hardly fair at all."

* * *

The growl of some sort of engine from down on the street wouldn't normally have been strange enough to make Bilba think twice. At that moment, however, she happened to have been peeking out her front windows as she tidied up a few things (making certain the flat was more cosy than cluttered, despite the shelves stuffed full of books, the stacks of more books, a forest of potted plants, and too many nicknacks and heirlooms scattered about), and the sight of a motorcycle pulling up to the kerb just outside the gate of Carrock House was certainly not a usual occurrence.

The rider cut the engine, swinging one leg over to dismount the bike before tugging the glossy black helmet off his head. Bilba couldn't see his face in the dark of the evening, not from this distance, but she could see the sudden bright rectangle of a mobile screen light up in his palm, only a moment before her own phone began to ring.

It was Thorin's name in her call-display, and Bilba blinked at it, then shot a glance back towards the window as she connected the call and brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello," she said, not quite daring to peer outside properly again.

"Hello, Bilba." Bilba couldn't help but note the similarities between that voice, deep and resonant, and the dull rumble of the motorcycle. "I'm here, but— a question. I drove; is there a good place for me to leave my bike, out of the way, or should I find a spot down the street? Either works for me."

"Um." Swallowing, thrown for a bit of loop by the images of Thorin on the back of a motorcycle, all denim and leather and _thighs_, Bilba tried vainly to shake some sense back into her brain. "Oh, yes, of course, yes. There's a little gravel drive, just up the righthand side of the building, around the hedge. Some of my neighbours keep their bicycles there; it should be fine."

"I see it," Thorin said. "I'll just be a minute."

A minute wasn't nearly enough time for Bilba to get herself sorted after that revelation— a _motorcycle_, for goodness sake— but she nodded anyway, pulling her cardigan over her bare arms. "Be right down."

The calico cat had been usurped from its sentry post in the entryway, replaced by a suspiciously glowering Beorn, leaning out the open front door and completely blocking her exit as he glared into the night.

"Beorn," Bilba said, and her landlord's dark, shaggy head whipped around towards the sound of her voice, his thunderous expression faltering. "May I get past, please?"

Beorn's mountainous form didn't shift an inch. "You're not wearing a coat, little bunny."

"Oh, I'm not going far." Calling up her sweetest smile, Bilba wrapped her cardigan a bit tighter around herself. "I have a friend coming over for supper, and I'm just letting him in. He's parking his motorcycle over in the driveway, if that's all right."

"A friend." Beorn's face was granite, hard and unmoving, with the twist of a frown clearly visible amidst his bushy black beard, but he did step aside with only a grunt of displeasure. Bilba decided then and there that she would make him a spice cake later that week; most of the time, his dedication to keeping Carrock House safe and secure was nothing but a comfort.

"Thank you," she said, and reached up to give his enormous forearm a gentle squeeze as she passed. "I have my keys, so don't worry about the door."

That hardly mattered, as she fully expected the man to remain looming in the hall until she brought Thorin inside, but it seemed polite to say.

The evening air was brisk as Bilba slipped outside, heading towards the drive; she drew near in time to hear the purr of an engine cut off again, and the crunch of gravel, before popping around the hedge to find Thorin with a helmet under one arm, looking surprised to see her.

"My landlord is guarding the entryway," she said by way of greeting, trying very hard not to stare at the motorcycle, or Thorin's leather jacket (which she had seen before, of course, but never with the benefit of this new knowledge). "So I thought it best I come warn you."

"Ah, yes." Peeling off his gloves, Thorin pushed one hand back through his hair before motioning for Bilba to precede him towards the house. "He takes building security very seriously, if I recall."

"He always means well, really." Falling into step beside Thorin, keeping noticeably close, Bilba was pleased when his arm curled loosely behind her, his hand splayed above the small of her back. "Just please, don't expect him to be delighted to see you, possibly ever. But _I'm_ delighted to see you, if that helps."

"It helps immensely," Thorin said, and a glance over confirmed he was smiling down at her, sweet and crooked.

They had made it to the step already, and true to form, Beorn was still waiting, leaning partway out the door. He moved aside when they moved closer, but not enough for Thorin and Bilba to stay side-by-side as they passed the threshold.

"This is your friend, I suppose," Beorn rumbled, before Bilba could say a word of introduction, and favoured Thorin with a decidedly narrow look. "Thought you were a trespasser, sneaking in unwanted."

Though his tone clearly implied that Beorn wasn't entirely convinced Thorin didn't still qualify as such, Thorin held out his hand, open and steady.

"Thorin Durinson," he said, calmly meeting Beorn's scrutiny, and didn't even flinch when a truly massive paw of a hand closed around his own. "Good to meet you."

"Beorn Urson. The Carrock's mine." There was no audible crack of bone, but Bilba still sent Beorn a pointed look from behind Thorin's shoulder, until the handshake released. "Durinson, eh? Yorkshire?"

"Aye," Thorin replied, and Bilba felt her curiosity tweak. It may have been a guess, based on the Northern flavour wound loosely through Thorin's accent, but Beorn had sounded surer than that. "But London now."

Beorn hummed, clearly winding up for a barrage of questioning; Bilba looped her arm around Thorin's elbow, giving a small tug.

"If you'll pardon us, Beorn, I've a pan on the hob. Have a good evening."

It would have been too obvious, and possibly quite difficult, to actually drag Thorin off towards the staircase, but if he hadn't followed the cues of her more delicate manoeuvring, Bilba might have seriously considered trying. Thankfully, Thorin stepped beside her when she turned to make their escape.

"You ring me if you need anything, little bunny," Beorn called after them, and it took effort for Bilba to bite back a curse. "Or holler, even, and I'll be right up."

Oh, wasn't that just _grand_. And, of course, it proceeded to get even better shortly thereafter.

"Little bunny," Thorin murmured, half-question and half-laughter, as they climbed past the landing.

"No, _no_." Putting one palm against Thorin's chest, Bilba stopped him on the staircase, only two stairs from the top, but continued up herself until the difference in their heights all but evened out. It was reminiscent of their first date, and the impromptu kisses that had followed, but that was hardly the sort of thing Bilba wanted to be thinking of at that precise moment.

"Absolutely none of that," she said firmly, then pointed to her own mouth. "That phrase will never pass your lips, if they would ever like to meet these lips again."

Thorin, to his credit, had the furrowed brow of a man both confused and apologetic, without a hint of teasing lurking anywhere in his expression. "I, er... All right. Understood."

"Thank you, Thorin." Feeling slightly guilty for spoiling the formerly playful mood, Bilba leaned in, claiming a brief, gentle kiss. Thorin returned the kiss just as gently, one hand reaching out to cup her waist, and Bilba felt tingles down to her toes.

"Come on," she said after another moment of that, pulling back and drawing Thorin up with her, down the corridor and into the privacy of her flat.

"Bilba," Thorin said, reaching for her hand before even bothering with his coat or boots. He didn't reel her in, but simply pressed her fingers between his own, and Bilba watched the question clearly churning behind his concerned gaze.

This was not how she'd intended the evening to go, awkward almost from the start. At least Thorin didn't seem offended, merely curious and a bit worried; Bilba sighed, and moved in close enough to hug him round the ribs, pleased when he returned the embrace without hesitation.

"I'm not cross," she said, breathing in the smell of leather (pleasing, even if his coat was chilled from the evening air) and whatever faintly spicy cologne Thorin was wearing. "Honestly. But it's a silly nickname, and I'd simply rather not have you calling me a _little_ anything, when it comes down to it. All right?"

"Of course." The kiss against the crown of her head was a lovely addition to an already cosy hug, as well as the warmth of Thorin's breath through her hair. It wouldn't have been a terrible evening if they spent it just like that, standing tangled together barely inside her front door, but there was still the matter of the meal currently cooking in her kitchen.

Giving Thorin's broad, muscled bulk a final squeeze, Bilba leaned back to find his expression mirroring the contentment warming her own chest, softening his eyes.

"Let's have supper," Bilba said, smiling wide.

* * *

Thorin hadn't had a meal so delicious in a very long time... or possibly _ever_, though he would never even think of saying as much to Dis. He'd eaten far too many tasty (and some less than tasty) meals at his sister's table to risk his personal safety that way.

Sitting at Bilba's dining table, however, stuffed just shy of painfully full with pork chops (which had, fittingly enough, also been stuffed with sausage, apples, and spices), roasted potatoes, and vegetables, Thorin found he had no compunctions about his sister's potentially wounded feelings.

"That was possibly the greatest meal I've ever eaten," he said, after Bilba tutted at him to stay put while she moved their dishes to the sink. He was left with just a heavy bottomed pint glass, and only another mouthful or two of rich, earthy cider.

("My cousin Drogo always sends a few bottles down to me at Christmas," Bilba had explained. "Hobbiton apples are the sweetest you'll find."

And if her voice wavered, bittersweet, when she'd talked about her family, Thorin was wise enough not to press.)

Bilba hummed wordless acknowledgment of his compliment, running a quick spray of water over the plates before turning back to face him, hands braced on either side of her hips. As lovely as she was in skirts (and god help him, she was _breathtaking_), Thorin decided he had a particular appreciation for Bilba in jeans. It was a comfortable look, paired with that soft, gauzy blouse, and the notion that she was growing comfortable _with_ _him_ was absolutely fantastic.

The only thing that made him twitch was the red lacquer still painted over her nails— the last time he'd seen those nails, they'd been carding through another man's hair. The memory was a mild bother, but easy enough to shake off.

Easy enough, especially when he was suddenly being levelled with such a steady, sultry stare.

"Flattery," Bilba said, with eyes looking dark and gleaming in the warm, yellowish glow of the lamps scattered around the flat. "May get you an invitation to the sofa, if you like."

And yes, he might have been feeling heavy and very nearly dazed from the food, but he wasn't far gone enough to consider refusing such an enticing offer.

Hauling himself to his feet, Thorin smoothed a hand over his shirt— the blessedly unwrinkled button-down, grey with thin darker grey stripes, had been the first vaguely dressy thing he'd laid hands upon when he'd bolted into his bedroom. It was more suitable, at least, than his t-shirt had been.

When Bilba started off towards the lounge, beckoning him to follow with a crook of her finger and a swing of her hips, he followed, gladly. When she bade him sit, he sank onto the cushions of the plush tweed sofa.

And when she settled down in his lap, legs slung over his thighs and her arm snaking around his shoulders, Thorin met her half-way, drinking in deep, cider-flavoured kisses.

* * *

"I should go," he murmured, then nuzzled another kiss against the impossibly soft skin of Bilba's inner arm, just above the crook of her elbow. She was lying across his chest, flattening against him as he'd shifted and sprawled over her sofa, with her face tucked into the hollow of his throat; when he spoke, the fingers she had laced through his hair tightened, nails scraping his scalp and sending a pleasant shudder down his spine.

Morning came early, as would his morning shift at the station. Thorin had not allowed himself to forget that, even when he'd had Bilba pressing him back against the upholstery and moaning breathily into his mouth.

Over an hour of snogging on the sofa, both of them fully aware that their night had no intentions of going further, was actually _pleasantly_ frustrating.

"You should," Bilba agreed, punctuated by the wet press of her lips against his Adam's apple, then another under his chin. Thorin was infinitely glad he'd taken the few extra minutes back at his flat— after brushing his teeth and sparing a long, considering look at his rarely used tin of pomade before thinking better of it— to shave. And, as luck would have it, he'd even managed that hasty bit of grooming without slitting his throat, despite the weird thrumming sensation under his skin, pulsing with every tick of his watch.

Back in the present, curled together on Bilba's very comfortable sofa, they both moved with what might have been good intentions, but only far enough to bring their mouths together— damp breaths mingling, lips brushing and sucking, sensitive, and tongues sliding slow. All of it was beautifully familiar now, and still made the banked smoulder of arousal swell deep in Thorin's gut. And lower, even, as Bilba's leg shifted between his thighs; Thorin arched his neck, breaking away from their kisses long enough to inhale, pressing his head back against the sofa.

"I feel terrible for not offering you coffee," Bilba continued, smoothly transferring her attention to the edge of his jaw, peppering kisses and the occasional, gentle scrape of her teeth as her words ghosted over his cheek. "Or dessert."

"Jesus _Christ—_" Thorin's hands tightened against her ribs, sliding farther up the warm, dewy skin where Bilba's blouse had hitched up in the back. Getting hold of himself with some effort, he turned, taking full advantage of the substantial bulk he had on his side to roll Bilba off his chest, wedging her snugly between his body and the back of the sofa.

Her cheeks were flushed, lushly pink, as she looked up at him with blue eyes blown wide and her mouth parted wetly. For a split second, Thorin found that _language_ had escaped him, leaving no other recourse but to kiss her again while he waited for his brain to recover from its short circuit.

"Gorgeous woman," he managed to say, as Bilba's arms wrapped around his neck and she _wriggled_ against him.

"Next time," she whispered, sweet and wicked, while their lips were still touching. "We'll have dessert, next time."

"I'm—" Those two words, _next time_, jolted through him like lightning, and Thorin heaved himself up from their tangle with a great rush of fortitude. "I'm going."

He risked looking over, and found Bilba exactly as tempting as he'd feared, sprawled and rumpled across the cushions.

"And _next time_," he rumbled, throat gone dry, and was more than a little gratified to see _want_ in Bilba's expression, mirroring the ache lancing through him. "We'll have all the time in the world." Getting his feet under him, pointedly ignoring the wobbly feeling in his knees, Thorin braced an arm on the back of the sofa and leaned close, cupping her face with one hand.

The taste of cider had long since faded, but the plushness of Bilba's lips still managed to make him feel drunk on her kisses, warm and besotted. This time, he pulled back after little more than a peck, bussing her top lip.

"So I'll not be rushed," he said, brushing his nose across her cheek, and the corner of her smile. "And I'll savour dessert properly."


End file.
